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COPYRIGHTED 
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1900 


HEARTHSIDE    SKETCHES 


221 082f> 


TO 

MY  LITTLE    SON   AND   DAUGHTER 

Whose  quaint  appreciation  and  unflagging  interest, 
have  been  my  incitive  throughout  this  work,  this  little 
book  is  lovingly  dedicated. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

The  New  Minister         .  .1 

Jim 19 

The  Old  Man's  Story     ...  .33 

Baby  Violet  .  .  47 

Little  Joe  ...  .48 

A  Dutiful  Daughter  .  .  50 

Autumn    .  .  .  .  •  •  .92 

My  Boy  ...  93 

Little  Blue  Eyes  .  .  .93 

Childhood  Home     .  .  94 

Minna's  Man       .......       94 

The  Nation's  I  )<>;ul  .  .  95 

Innisfallen  .  ....      96 

How  Long     .  . 

Prayer       .....  .  .      98 

Old  Memories  ......  99 

Sunrise      ........      99 

My  King        ...  100 

Slumber  Song     .  .  .  .  .  •  .101 


vi  CONTENTS 

Burns  ...  102 

Appreciation       ....     102 

A  Winter  Scene 103 

The  Silent  Acre 104 

Retrospective  .  .104 

Monopolistic  Monologue         .....     106 

Bethlehem    .  .  .  .  .  .  .106 

Meta  Vaughan   .......     107 

The  Tomb  Beside  the  Hudson     .  .  .  .  108 

Sterling  Castle   .  .  .  .  .  .  .109 


Trjje  New  Minister. 


THE  Churchill  First  Church  had  been  without    a 
pastor  a  year  or  more.     It  was  very  hard  to  suit 
everyone  in    that  church,  and  previous    experi- 
ence had  taught  them  the  utter    futility  of  ex- 
pecting to  keep  a  man  against   whom  any    one   member 
could  bring  the  faintest  shadow  of  objection,  either  per- 
sonal or  professional. 

They  had  been  very  unfortunate  in  their  previous 
engagements,  each  of  the  many  who  had  filled  their  pul- 
pit failing  to  give  entire  satisfaction.  For  instance: 
The  Rev.  Mr.  Brown  was  too  practical,  and  dwelt  too 
much  on  personal  integrity  and  holy  living,  to  the  neg- 
lect of  the  doctrines — the  doctrines  were  what  they  hir- 
ed him  to  expound.  Some  one  ventured  to  suggest  a  little 
different  course  to  him,  but  alas!  when  he  had  complied 
with  the  suggestion,  he  found  he  had  opened  a  door  to  a 
score  more  of  the  same  sort.  Deacon  Jones  believed  in 
free  will,  and  Deacon  White  in  divine  sovereignty,  and 
the  half  distracted  parson  tried  to  harmonize  the  dis- 
cordant elements,  leaning  first  a  little  one  way  and  then 
a  little  the  other,  to  the  utter  disgust  of  first  one  and 

1 


2  HEARTHSIDE    SKETCHES 

then  the  other  wing  of  the  different  members,  according 
to  which  side  he  inclined.  And  so  the  last  state  of  the 
man  was  worse  than  the  first,  for  the  different  sections 
-were  unanimous  upon  one  thing  :  A  minister  should  be 
above  all  things  else,  rigidly  independent.  They  had 
one  weather-vane  to  their  church  and  that  was  enough. 
And  so  Mr.  Brown  resigned. 

After  this  came  Mr.  Darrow.  He  was  everything 
that  could  be  asked — eloquent,  gracefully  uniting  theory 
and  practice  in  a  fine  subtle  way  that  offended  no  one's 
prejudices,  but  somebody  awoke  to  the  fact  that  this 
same  subtlety  of  graceful  generalizing  was  undermining 
the  foundation  of  their  faith,  and  heads  were  shaken, 
wisely, and  "  'Twon't  do!"  was  said  more  and  more  em- 
phatically, and — well,  Mr.  Darrow  had  a  call  from  some- 
where about  that  time — and  it  was  accepted !  The 
•church  determined  to  be  cautious  in  the  selection  of  Mr. 
Darrow's  successor,  and  each  member  generally,  and  the 
1  'leading"  members  particularly,  had  a  nicely  prepared 
code  of  qualifications — including  theoretical,  practical, 
intellectual,  social  and  domestic  qualities — they  had 
severally  resolved  he  must  come  up  to,  in  order  to  ob- 
tain their  suffrage.  Strangely  enough,  their  ideas  on 
these  matters  didn't  perfectly  agree,  and  it  was  perhaps 
stranger  still  how  many  faults  and  imperfections  the 
clergy  were  possessed  of. 

''I'd  no  idee,"  said  Deacon  Harris,  "what  a  miser- 
able lot  of  workmen  the  Lord  had  in  his  vineyard.  It 


HEARTHSIDE    SKETCHES  3 

seems  a  pity  that  he  couldn't  had  a  little  of  the  wisdom 
and  good  judgment  of  the  Northville  Church  before  he 
give  'era  a  call."  But  Deacon  Harris  was  terribly  old 
fashioned  in  his  ideas,  and  not  at  all  keen  in  scenting  out 
blemishes,  especially  in  ministers.  Of  course  an  old 
fogy  like  this  could  have  very  little  weight  in  so  very  in- 
telligent and  discriminating  a  church  as  the  First 
Churchill.  After  several  months  of  candidating,  they 
at  last  settled  upon  Mr.  Marvin,  a  man  who  at  least  had 
not  the  faults  of  his  immediate  predecessors,  for  one 
look  in  his  face  told  you  that  he  was  fearless  and  inde- 
pendent, and  would  both  preach  and  practice  what  his 
own  conscience  believed  to  be  right.  "At  last," 
thought  this  perfect  people,  "we  have  a  workman 
worthy  of  our  hire."  And  so  they  gave  him  a  recep- 
tion,and  introduced  him  to  the  "prominent  members, "  and 
everything  was  altogether  lovely — for  six  months.  Then 
was  made  the  shocking  discovery  that  the  Marvin's 
didn't  own  any  silver, — to  speak  of — and  hadn't  any 
"nice  dishes,"  and  to  crown  all,  Mr.  Marvin  absolutely 
refused  to  discharge  an  old  and  tried  servant,  when  he 
knew  one  or  two  of  the  "leading"  members  desired  him 
to,  on  account  of  some  personal  spite  they  had  against 
her.  This  was  the  beginning  of  the  end.  Mr  Marvin's 
antecedents  were  hunted  up,  the  "specks"  magnified  in 
a  manner  that  put  to  blush  the  most  powerful  triumph 
of  microscopic  art,  and  blazoned  abroad  with  a  zeal 
worthy  of  a  better  cause.  In  addition  Marvin  fraterniz- 


4  HEARTHSIDE    SKETCHES 

ed  with  the  wood-sawyer,  actually  stopping  on  the  street 
to  speak  with  him.  Theoretically,the  Churchill  Church 
believed  a  minister  should  visit  "the  poor,  the  sick  and 
the  destitute;  "  practically,  they  preferred  it  should  not 
be  their  minister.  And  so  Mr.  Marvin  went  the  way  of 
his  predecessors. 

For  the  next  year  the  Churchill  Church  "candidat- 
ed"  to  its  heart's  content,  and  when  at  last,  with  a  con- 
siderable degree  of  unanimity,  they  decided  on  Charles 
Armstrong,  there  were  many  who  felt  a  secret  sense  of 
commiseration  for  the  young,  untried  man,  who  had  de- 
cided to  risk  his  fate  where  his  older  and  more  exper- 
ienced brothers  had  failed. 

Mr.  Armstrong  was  a  single  man.  This  was  a  new 
feature  in  the  experience  of  the  First  Church,  and  in 
certain  quarters  a  somewhat  exhilarating  one.  After 
the  advent  of  Mr.  Armstrong,the  Churchill  First  Church 
congregation  soon  had  a  proportion  of  from  twelve  to 
fifteen  females  to  one  male  attendant.  A  score  of  young 
ladies  who  had  left  the  Sunday  school  because  they 
were  too  old,  became  seriously  impressed  with  the  beauty 
and  worth  of  that  institution,  and  hastened  to  show 
their  faith  by  their  works,  when  Mr.  Armstrong  an- 
nounced that  he  should  give  the  school  his  constant 
personal  attention. 

"Plenty  of  company,  now,  Margie,"  said  Deacon 
Harris  with  an  odd  smile,  as  his  pretty  grand-daughter* 
Margie  Dean,  slipped  her  arm  through  his,  the  better  to 


HEARTHSIDE    SKETCHES  5 

guide  the  almost  blind  old  man  through  the  pleasant 
meadow  path  that  led  from  the  rear  of  the  church  to  the 
quaint  old  homestead  where  these  two  dwelt  alone. 

"Why,  yes,  grandfather,"  she  replied  with  inno- 
cent enthusiasm.  "All  the  girls  are  joining  the  school 
again — I  am  so  glad !  It  will  be  encouraging  to  the  new 
minister,  I  know  he  felt  disappointed  the  first  time  he 
came  into  the  school,  he  looked  so  gravely  about  at  the 
empty  seats,  and  asked  'if  only  children  attended  this 
school.'  " 

"And  quite  ignored  my  little  woman, did  he?"  the  old 
man  asked  with  a  pretence  of  anger. 

"0  no,  indeed! — that  is,  he  didn't  mind  me  at  all; 
it's  not  likely  he  should,"  she  explained  eagerly.  "I  am 
not  a  very  noticeable  person,  and — I  don't  really  think 
Mr.  Armstrong  has  ever  seen  me  yet,"  she  added  with  a 
faint  blush.  "I  came  past  Lucy  Fuller  and  Julia  Har- 
per when  I  left  the  vestry  to-day,  talking  with  him  at 
the  library  door,  but  I  don't  think  any  of  them  saw  me." 
Then,  with  a  little  laugh  :  "You  are  not  the  only  blind 
person  in  the  village,  grandfather." 

"I  know  it,  dear,  I  know  it,"  he  said  soberly,  "but 
I'd  rather  have  a  clear  conscience  and  a  spirit  of  humil- 
ity than  all  their  fine  things.  'Man  judgeth  from  ap- 
pearance, but  God  looketh  at  the  heart.'  Always  re- 
member that,  dear,  and  trust  him  for  the  rest." 

"But,  grandfather,  I  was  not  complaining,"  she  in- 
terrupted. "If  people  don't  see  me  only  when  they  hap- 


6  HEARTHSIDE   SKETCHES 

pen  to  be  alone,  or  want  something  of  me,  it  is  no  reason 
why  I  should  be  unhappy.  It  must  be  infinitely  more 
trouble  to  them  than  it  is  to  me." 

Deacon  Harris'  face  brightened,  and  his  tremulous 
hand  involuntarily  closed  over  the  firm  little  fingers  rest- 
ing on  his  arm. 

"God  bless  you  forever  and  ever,  little  Margie,"  he 
whispered  in  a  husky  voice.  Margie  smiled  brightly  up 
into  his  face,  and  opened  the  gate.  At  each  side  of  the 
path  was  a  row  of  sweet  red  and  white  pinks,  and  at  the 
end  of  them,  under  the  high,  narrow  windows,  alternate 
dumbs  of  daffodills  and  damask  roses.  All  the  rest  was 
greensward,  and  this  sunny  June  day,  of  a  soft  green, 
shading  from  dark  to  golden,  as  the  sunshine  sifted  here 
and  there  through  the  branches  of  the  stately  elms.  Mar- 
gie picked  a  handful  of  pinks  as  she  went  slowly  up  the 
path.  Her  grandfather  had  gone  on  to  the  house,  when 
a  murmur  of  voices  struck  her  ear,  and  looking  up  she 
saw  Lucy  Fuller,  Julia  Harper  and  Mr.  Armstrong  walk- 
ing leisurely  along  the  meadow  path,  almost  opposite  the 
house.  They  had  apparently  discovered  her  at  the  same 
moment,  for  they  looked  up  and  involuntarily  lowered 
their  voices.  Obeying  her  first  impulse,  Margie  bowed 
to  the  young  ladies,  both  of  whom  gave  her  a  cool  stare, 
and  the  very  faintest  possible  inclination  of  the  head  as 
they  rustled  on  in  their  rich  silks.  A  vivid  flush  over- 
spread the  pretty,  sensitive  face,  and  the  sweet  lips 
trembled  a  moment.  Then  a  voice  from  within  called, 


HEARTHSIDE    SKETCHES         .  T 

'•Margie,"  in  such  a  strange,  unnatural  tone  that  every- 
thing else  was  forgotten,  as,  in  sudden  affright,  she  hur- 
ried into  the  house. 

"Grandfather!"  she  called.  There  was  no  answer, 
only  a  faint  moan  from  the  kitchen. 

A  moment  more,  and  Margie  was  kneeling  on  the 
floor,  trying  to  lift  the  limp,  nerveless  form  of  her  grand- 
father in  her  arms.  He  had  been  sitting  in  the  doorway 
and  had  fallen  back  into  the  room,  his  feet  still  resting 
on  the  broad  grass-fringed  doorstone. 

"O  grandfather,  speak  to  me!"  she  cried,  breaking 
into  tears,  and  again  essaying  to  lift  the  insensible  form. 

"Let  me  assist  you,  Miss  Dean,"  said  a  strong,  quiet 
voice — the  voice  of  the  new  minister — at  her  side,  and 
without  waiting  for  her  to  answer,  a  pair  of  muscular 
arms  lifted  the  old  man  as  if  he  had  been  an  infant. 
Now  where  shall  we  put  him  that  he  will  get  the  most 
air?  Have  you  a  large  cool  room  with  a  bed  in  it?" 

Without  speaking  Margie  threw  open  the  door  into 
the  "north-room,"  a  great  shadowy-looking  apartment,  in 
one  corner  of  which  the  "spare  bed"  had  stood  from  time 
immemorial. 

"Just  the  thing,  only  a  trifle  close.  Open  the 
north  window,  please,  and  bring  some  cold  water,"  he 
said,  laying  down  his  burden  on  the  white  lavender 
scented  bed. 

"O,  Mr.  Armstrong,  is  my  grandfather  going  to  die?" 
Margie  asked  sharply,  her  natural  awe  of ''the  minister," 


8  HEARTHSIDE    SKETCHES 

as  well  as  her  recent  mortification  completely  swallow- 
ed up  in  anxiety  and  alarm. 

"It  is  nothing  more  than  a  faintingfit,  I  am  quite 
sure,"  he  said,  in  such  a  quiet,  assured  tone  that  Margie 
regained  her  composure  at  once,  and  went  quietly  and 
deftly  at  work  for  his  restoration. 

It  was  time  for  the  afternoon  service,  however,  be- 
fore he  was  so  far  recovered  as  to  speak,  though  he  smil- 
ed when  his  eyes  rested  on  Margie,  and  pressed  the  hand 
of  the  young  minister  warmly  when  he  took  his  depar- 
ture, which  he  did  with  no  small  degree  of  reluctance. 

"I  shall  see  this  picture  before  my  eyes  all  service 
time,"  he  said,  looking  down  at  Margie  as  she  knelt, 
very  pale  and  still,  by  the  side  of  the  white  haired  old 
man,  who  every  now  and  then  passed  his  hand  caress- 
ingly over  hers. 

"If — if  you  could  come  in  this  evening,"  she  stam- 
mered, feeling  her  face  grow  hot.  "We  are  so  alone 
here,  though  I  never  thought  of  it  when  grandfather 
was  well." 

"Certainly,  Miss  Dean,"  he  responded  in  a  hearty 
voice.  "I  should  have  come  if  you  had  not  spoken  of 
your  need.  I  shall  be  very  anxious  about  Father  Harris 
until  I  see  him  in  his  accustomed  place  at  church." 
Then  he  shook  hands  with  her  in  such  a  friendly,  cor- 
dial way,  that  her  natural  diffidence  and  dread  of  strang- 
•ers  quite  dissipated,  and  all  the  afternoon  there  was  a 
pleasant  glow  in  her  heart. 


HEARTHSIDE    SKETCHES  y 

Twenty-five  years  before  my  story  opens,  Mr.  Harris 
had  been  a  deacon  of  the  First  Church,  as  well  as  one  of 
its  financial  pillars.  He  had  an  unbounded  faith  in 
everybody,  and  believed  all  the  world  as  honest  as  him- 
self. And  so,  when  Henry  Fuller  came  to  him,  and  be- 
sought his  name  to  a  note  for  three  thousand  dollars, 
he  signed  it  unhesitatingly,  and  thought  no  more  of  it. 
Henry  was  a  rising  young  man,  everybody  said,  and 
Churchill  was  rather  proud  of  him,  and  prophesied  that 
he  would  be  the  richest  man  in  town  in  twenty  years. 

Three  months  went  by,  and  the  good-hearted  deacon 
had  nearly  forgotten  the  matter  of  the  note.  His  son 
and  daughter  were  married,  and  like  the  prodigal,  in- 
sisted on  having  the  portion  that  belonged  to  them.  He 
had  long  before  invested  five  thousand  dollars  for  each. 
It  was  accordingly  withdrawn  and  handed  over  to  them 
on  the  day  they  left  home  to  try  their  own  fortunes  in 
the  world. 

Another  three  months  went  by,  when  a  startling 
rumor  ran  through  Churchill — Henry  Fuller  had  failed! 
And  the  man  who  held  the  note  for  three  thousand  dol- 
lars came  post  haste  to  Churchill  to  look  after  his  inter- 
ests. But  a  New  York  broker  named  Gripen,  held 
everything  in  his  possession.  He  therefore  called  at 
once  on  Mr.  Fuller's  endorser,  and  presented  his  claim. 

"I  shall  pay  it,  of  course,  but  you  must  give  me  a 
few  days,"  the  deacon  said  with  a  strange  sinking  at  his 
heart,  for  he  knew  the  old  homestead  must  be  mortgaged 
to  raise  the  money. 


10  HEARTHSIDE   SKETCHES 

From  the  mortgage  of  the  farm  dated  the  decline  in 
Deacon  Harris'  fortunes.  And  after  fifteen  years  of 
anxiety  and  struggle,  he  gave  up  the  farm,  though  the 
pang  it  cost  him  only  God  and  his  own  heart  knew.  He 
still  retained  the  old  farmhouse  with  an  acre  of  ground, 
though  but  a  pitiful  caricature  of  what  it  once  had 
been.  After  a  few  years  his  wife  died,  leaving  him 
quite  alone.  He  had  long  since  ceased  to  be  a  deacon 
of  the  First  Church,  though  the  familiar  title  still  clung 
to  him.  Younger  and  wealthier  men,  imbued  with  more 
modern  ideas,  controlled  its  affairs  now. 

After  twenty-one  years  of  absence,  Henry  Fuller 
came  back  to  Churchill.  The  prophecy  of  his  youth 
was  more  than  fulfilled,  and  all  Churchill  went  down  on 
its  knees  before  him.  If  anyone  remembered  the  past, 
they  wisely  refrained  from  speaking  of  it,  and  Deacon 
Harris  in  his  poverty  was  conveniently  forgotten.  It 
was  a  business  transaction,  and  if  the  deacon  had  chosen 
to  take  the  risks,  why,  it  was  only  his  own  fault. 

The  deacon's  children,  in  the  meantime,  had  chil- 
dren of  their  own,  and  were  engrossed  in  their  own  fam- 
ilies and  interests.  John  could  not  burden  himself  with 
an  old  man  who  might  live  to  be  a  great  deal  of  trouble. 
If  his  father  "hadn't  been  a  fool,  he  would  have  been 
independent,  now." 

Clara's  husband  had  been  unfortunate,  and  with  a 
grown-up  family  of  boys  and  girls,  it  was  as  much  as  he 
could  do  to  live  in  genteel  style. 


HEARTHSIDE    SKETCHES  11 

After  his  wife  died,  Deacon  Harris  visited  each  of 
his  children.  It  did  not  take  him  long  to  learn  there 
was  no  place  for  him  in  his  children's  home,  and  with  a 
strange  sense  of  desolation  tugging  at  his  heart,  the  old 
man  prepared  to  return  to  his  lonely  dwelling.  Clara 
wept,  and  "so  wished  they  were  able  to  keep  father," 
and  the  old  man  slipped  quietly  out  and  sat  down  on  the 
doorstep,  with  his  head  very  low  on  his  breast. 

"Grandfather,"  said  a  low,  sweet  voice,  and  a  soft 
arm  was  thrown  lovingly  around  his  bowed  shoulders,  "do 
you  want  me?  Can  I  be  any  help  and  comfort  to  you, 
if  I  come  to  Churchill?" 

"You,  child!"  he  exclaimed,  grasping  the  little 
hand  in  both  his  own. 

"Why,  yes,  grandfather,  I  am  almost  seventeen,  and 
can  learn  to  do  anything — if  I  won't  be  a  burden  to  you. 
May  I  go — do  you  want  me,  grandfather?"  parting  the 
silver  hair  with  her  slender  fingers,  and  leaning  over  to 
look  into  his  face. 

"Want  you,  little  Margie!"  he  cried,  a  sudden  light 
in  his  faded  eyes.  "But  they  won't  let  you  go  to  live 
with  grandfather,  dear." 

"1  shall  go,  most  certainly,"  she  said  resolutely. 

And  this  was  how  Margie  Dean  came  to  be  living  at 
Churchill  at  the  opening  of  this  story.  There  had  been 
a  storm  of  opposition,  but  she  said  quietly  and  firmly : 
"I  shall  go  if  you  all  disown  me  in  consequence.  I 
know  it  is  right." 


12  HEARTHSIDE    SKETCHES 

And  now  we  will  return  to  the  "north  room,"  and 
look  after  our  patient  and  his  anxious  nurse.  The  sun 
threw  a  long  slant  line  of  p&le  gold  through  each  of  the 
narrow  windows,  and  the  quiet  room  was  tremulous  with 
soft  light  and  shade,  and  odorous  with  sweet-brier,  when 
the  minister,  retxirning,  paused  a  moment  on  the 
threshold.  How  long  Mr.  Armstrong  might  have  been 
content  to  stand  silently  and  listen  to  the  sweet  voice  of 
Margie,  as  she  read  in  low  tones  from  one  of  the  royal 
singer's  triumphant  psalms,  I  know  not,  for  Margie, 
looking  suddenly  up,  discovered  his  presence,  and  gave 
him  such  a  glad,  welcoming  smile  that  it  drove  all  else 
from  his  mind. 

When  after  the  long  golden  twilight  hour  had  pass- 
ed, Charles  Armstrong  rose  to  take  his  departure,  he 
felt  a  vague  consciousness  that  whatever  the  future 
might  hold  in  store  for  him,  this  day  would  be  forever 
sacred  in  his  memory. 

It  was  known  in  Churchill  that  the  minister  went  to 
Deacon  Harris'  a  great  deal,  but  for  once  this  very  keen- 
scented  people  were  at  fault.  The  possibility  of  his 
falling  in  love  with  quiet  little  Margie  never  once  oc- 
curred to  them. 

But  one  day  a  thunderbolt  burst  over  the  village. 
Lucy  Fuller  was  returning  from  the  post  office,  when  she 
met  Mr.  Armstrong  riding  in  an  open  carriage  with  Mar- 
gie Dean  beside  him,  and  the  careless  bow  he  gave  Miss 
Fuller  proved  how  completely  absorbed  he  was  in  his  com- 


13 

panion.  I  will  not  attempt  to  picture  the  surprise  and  in- 
dignation that  convulsed  the  First  Church  of  Churchill 
when  this  appalling  news  was  noised  abroad. 

Poor  Margie !  how  her  gentle,  sensitive  heart  was 
wounded  at  every  turn,  by  cold  looks  and  contemptuous 
smiles  and  vague  hints  which  she  did  not  understand, 
till  some  more  spiteful  than  others,  openly  taunted  her 
with  scheming  to  entangle  the  minister,  and  ruin  and 
drag  him  down  by  a  mesalliance. 

It  was  Lucy  Fuller  and  Julia  Harper  who  said  this, 
and  Margie's  soft  brown  eyes  held  a  pained  and  startled 
look,  as  she  passed  on  homeward,  those  cruel  sentences 
ringing  in  her  ears.  How  chilly  it  had  grown!  she 
shivered.  She  was  dragging  him  down.  It  seemed 
strange  that  she  had  never  thought  of  it  before.  She 
thought  of  the  bright  future,  upon  whose  threshold  he 
had  but  just  stepped,  and  her  heart  gave  a  quick  throb 
of  mingled  pain  and  bliss.  A  choking  sob  forced  itself 
through  the  whitened  lips,  but  there  was  a  new  light  in 
the  brown  eyes,  and  the  glow  of  a  great  resolve  made 
the  pure,  pale  face  softly  luminous. 

Margie  was  only  eighteen,  but  at  that  moment  her 
life  looked  to  her  as  desolate — its  bloom  and  sweetness  as 
nearly  vanished — as  the  dead  summer  over  whose  bier 
the  gaily-colored  autumn  leaves  were  already  slowly 
drifting. 

That  night  the  Rev.  Charles  Armstrong  retired  in  a 
very  un-Christian  temper.  He  was  vexed  with  himself, 


14  HEARTHSIDE    SKETCHES 

with  the  First   Church,    and  last,   but   not  least,    with 
Margie  Dean. 

"Who  cares  what  the  members  of  the  church  say, 
I'd  like  to  know.  I'm  sure  I  don't, and  Margie  wouldn't 
if  she  loved  me  half  as  well  as  I  love  her.  And  to  think 
how  firm  and  determined  she  was !  She  would  never  be 
a  'millstone  about  my  neck' — what  nonsense!  As  if  she 
were  not  fit  for  a  queen  this  moment !  How  pure  and 
brave  she  looked  when  she  said :  'Because  I  love  you, 
I  am  firm.  lean  sacrifice  my  love,  but  not  your  future.' 
"My  future !  Well  I  shall  resign,  and  I'll  do  it  to- 
morrow!" But  he  did  not,  he  stayed  and  fretted  him- 
self ill,  and  was  in  turn  jellied  and  dressing- gowned,  and 
slippered  by  all  the  young  ladies  in  the  village — save 
one;  and  with  the  perversity  of  human  nature,  this  ex- 
ception was  the  only  one  from  whom  he  desired  these 
favors.  But  though  Deacon  Harris  came  to  see  him,  no 
word  or  token  came  from  Margie. 

Mr.  Armstrong  grew  in  favor  with  the  First  Church. 
At  last,  after  repeated  failures,  they  had  found  a  min- 
ister after  their  own  heart.  They  had  not  enjoyed  such 
a  season  of  prosperity  for  years.  The  pastor  of  such  a 
flourishing  society  should  have  been  happy.  And  yet, 
I  am  afraid  he  was  not — nay  I  am  sure  that  the  only 
thing  that  kept  him  from  forsaking  his  admiring  flock, 
was  that  once  a  week  he  saw  Margie.  For  Margie  was 
always  at  church,  though  (and  it  made  him  very  angry) 
very  little  notice  or  attention  was  vouchsafed  her. 


HEARTHSIDE    SKETCHES  15 

Church  aristocracy  is  the  most  cool,  the  most  exclusive 
thing  in  the  world. 

But  one  Sunday  there  came  a  radical  change.  A 
stranger  occupied  a  seat  in  Deacon  Harris'  pew,  holding 
the  hymn  book  with  Margie,  and  when  service  was  over, 
both  people  and  pastor  were  much  exercised  by  seeing 
him  hand  her  into  an  elegant  carriage,  drawn  by  a  span 
of  beautiful,  black  thoroughbreds,  with  silken  manes 
tossing  from  proudly  arching  necks. 

While  the  people  wondered,  the  pastor  remembered 
the  look  of  half  sadness,  half  exultation,  that  crossed 
the  faintly  flushed  face  of  Margie  Dean  as  she  went 
down  the  aisle  and  out  at  the  church  door. 

There  is  always  someone  in  every  country  town, 
who  contrives  to  get  at  everyone's  affairs,  and  with  the 
most  commendable  enterprise  (worthy  a  higher  calling) 
proceeds  to  enlighten  their  slower  brethren.  Tom 
David  represented  this  class  in  Churchill,  and  before  the 
carriage  was  fairly  out  of  the  yard  he  had  informed 
several  that  "that  was  the  chap  who  had  come  after  the 
Deacon  and  Miss  Margie,  and  they  were  going  to  leave 
Churchill  that  very  week.  The  stranger  lived  in  the 
West  and  he  was  rich — shouldn't  wonder  if  he  was  go- 
ing to  marry  Margie." 

The  minister  heard  every  word  of  the  foregoing  as 
he  came  down  the  church  steps. 

The  short  winter  twilight  was  fading  out  in  the 
west,  when  Charles  Armstrong  crossed  with  long,  nerv- 


16  HEARTHSIDE    SKETCHES 

ous  strides  the  meadow,  beyond  which  stood  the  Harris 
homestead.  There  was  a  glow  of  yellow  light  against 
the  high  windows,  and  coming  nearer,  his  eyes  rested 
upon  the  sweet  face  of  Margie — his  Margie !  gazing 
dreamily  into  the  glowing  fireplace,  her  pure  face  bathed 
in  its  rosy  light.  In  that  moment,  all  the  pent-up  love 
he  had  been  trying  to  trample  out,  sprang  up  within  him, 
a  very  giant  that  would  not  be  stayed. 

Another  moment  and  Margie's  startled  and  blush- 
ing face  was  held  against  his  breast,  his  arms  folding 
her  in  an  eager  clasp. 

"Margie,  I  wrill  not  give  you  up,"  he  cried  breath- 
lessly. "O  Margie!  you  will  not  leave  me — you  will  not 
go  away  with  this  stranger?" 

"If  you  mean  Mr.  Grant,  both  grandfather  and  my- 
self have  promised  to  go  with  him  to  his  western  home 
as  soon  as  necessary  arrangements  can  be  made,"  she 
responded  quietly.  Charles  Armstrong  stood  aside  now, 
his  arms  folded,  his  face  white  and  grave. 

"Margie,"  he  said,  "I  will  not  censure  you,  but  I  pray 
you  may  never  know  the  pain  you  are  giving  me.  I 
hope  he  may  make  you  as  happy  as  I  had  hoped  to  do — 
I  cannot  say  more." 

His  strong  voice  faltered,  as  he  turned  away,  but 
Margie  sprang  to  his  side,  her  eyes  shining,  her  face 
radiant. 

"O  Charles!     What  do   you — what    can  you   mean?" 
she   cried.    "As  if   he — as  if  anybody  could  ever  take 


HEARTHSIDE    SKETCHES  17 

your  place!  And  Mr.  Grant  has  a  wife  and  three 
children." 

''Margie — my  darling!"  was  the  rapturous  cry. 

Well,  the  whole  story  came  out  after  Deacon  Hariss 
and  Margie  had  been  gone  a  few  days.  And  this  was 
the  story:  More  than  twenty-one  years  before  when 
James  Grant  was  a  struggling  merchant,  there  came  a 
period  of  financial  depression.  He  had  no  wealthy 
friends  to  aid  him,  and  with  sinking  heart  he  saw  one 
after  another  going  down  about  him,  and  the  way  be- 
fore him  growing  darker  every  day.  At  length  there 
came  a  crisis — a  day  when  hope  died  utterly  out  of  his 
heart.  Deacon  Harris,  then  one  of  the  wealthiest  men 
in  Churchill  came  into  his  office  on  business,  and  some- 
how succeeded  in  getting  the  whole  story  of  his  troubles 
from  him,  as  well  as  the  sum  necessary  to  carry  him 
over  the  chasm  upon  whose  brink  he  had  been  standing. 

"We  can't  have  this,  James,"  the  Deacon  said, 
smilingly,  as  he  quietly  wrote  out  a  check  for  the  sum 
needed. 

The  loan  had  been  promptly  paid  within  a  .year — 
'•The  debt  of  gratitude  has  been  gathering  interest  ever 
since,"  James  Grant  said.  It  was  by  the  merest  chance 
he  had  heard  of  his  benefactor's  reverses,  as  he  had  been 
in  business  in  Colorado  for  nearly  twenty  years.  As 
soon  as  he  had  heard,  he  started  for  the  East,  and  the 
result  of  this  visit  was  the  removal  of  the  Deacon  and 
Margie  to  his  beautiful  western  home. 


18  HEAJRTHSIDE   SKETCHES 

Churchill  talked  of  nothing  else  for  a  month,  but  at 
the  end  of  that  time,  it  suffered  a  more  startling  sen- 
sation— at  least  that  portion  of  it  composing  the  First 
Church.  Its  eloquent  young  minister,  who,  it  flattered 
itself  was  being  trained  and  moulded  to  exactly  meet  all 
its  wishes,  very  unexpectedly  resigned. 

Grief,  astonishment  and  indignation  succeeded  each 
other  in  their  hearts.  But  the  measure  of  their  tribu- 
lation was  not  yet  full.  Three  days  afterward  Tom 
David  came  home  from  the  city  in  a  state  of  sublime 
beatitude,  having  in  his  hands  a  paper  in  which  figured 
the  following  item : 

"Married,  in  Greenburg,  Col.,  by  the  Rev.  Robert 
Graves,  at  the  home  of  James  Grant,  Esq.,  Rev.  Charles 
Armstrong,  of  Churchill,  New  York,  to  Miss  Marjorie 
Dean,  of  Greenburg." 

The  pastorate  of  the  First  Church  is  still  vacant. 
Best  of  references  required,  and  the  preference  given  to 
married  applicants. 


Jim. 


Jini  might  have  been  twenty  or  he  might  have  been 
seventy,  so  completely  was  his  face  masked  by  its  coat- 
ing of  kindred  clay,  and  so  effectually  was  his  form  dis- 
guised by  the  nondescript  garments  hung  upon  it. 

Jim  must  have  had  a  surname.,  and  without  doubt 
"James"  was  the  title  bestowed  upon  him  by  the  happy 
mother  when  they  "named  the  baby."  Had  she  lived, 
she  might  perhaps  have  called  him  "Jamie,"  for  mother- 
hood strikes  gentle  chords  in  even  the  roughest  breast. 
But  she  left  him  in  his  baby  days;  and  those  upon 
whom  his  care  thereafter  fell  scorned  all  sentimentality, 
and  dubbed  him  Jim.  His  surname?  Yes,  he  must  have 
had  one,  at  least  so  the  census  taker  told  him  at 
the  same  time  he  undertook  to  convince  him  that  he 
must  also  have  an  age. 

Jim  listened  attentively  to  his  eloquence,  but  only 
answered  doggedly  :  "Jim  is  my  name,  I  can't  tell  you 
no  more."  And  he  walked  away,  leaving  "the  census 
man"  to  estimate. 

Each  Saturday  night  Jim's  old  roan  horse  might  be 
seen  hitched  outside  the  village  tavern,  while  his  mas- 

19 


20  HEARTHSIDE    SKETCHES 

ter  sat  within,  cheering  himself  with  what  comfort 
there  could  be  found  in  its  staple  article — whiskey.  It 
was  an  established  fact  that  Jim  could  absorb  more 
liquor  than  any  two  men  in  the  village,  but  no  amount 
of  drink  could  loosen  his  tongue.  He  never  treated,  and 
never  accepted  a  treat.  He  ordered  his  whiskey,  drank 
it,  paid  for  it,  and  then  shuffling  out  to  the  horse, 
mounted  and  rode  away  in  the  darkness,  to  his  home  on 
the  mountain. 

Imagine  a  small  clear  spot  surrounded  on  all 
sides  by  massive  forest  giants  covered  with  many 
hued  foliage,  and  intersected  with  countless  thickets  of 
underbrush,  standing  so  closely  together  that  their 
boughs  interlace  in  a  dense  canopy,  through  which  the 
sun  never  breaks,  and  where  shadows  deepen  to  black- 
ness, while  the  soughing  of  the  boughs  above  seems  a 
fitting  requiem  for  lost  souls,  and  you  have  a  vague  idea 
of  Jim's  abiding  place;  a  lonely  spot  for  even  a  forest 
to  hold. 

The  low  hut  was  enclosed  with  slabs,  from  which 
the  bark  had  never  been  stripped,  and  a  whole  in 
each  side  served  for  windows,  with  one  in  the  roof  for  a 
chimney.  The  door  was  unhinged  and  lay  on  the  floor 
inside.  When  it  was  clear,  Jim  left  it  down  all  night; 
but  when  it  rained  he  stood  it  up  before  the  opening. 
The  floor  was  of  clay,  and  a  rude  stool,  a  bedstead  and 
some  cooking  utensils  comprised  the  furniture.  At  the 
end  of  the  hut  was  a  shed,  which  eeemed  to  have  been 


HEARTHSIDE    SKETCHES  21 

intended  for  a  part  of  the  house.  It  had  evidently 
never  been  finished,  for  some  of  the  frame  glared 
naked,  unmarked  by  a  nail.  .  A  rude  mass  of  boughs 
formed  the  roof,  and  in  it  Old  Roan  dreamed  when  off 
duty. 

This  was  Jim's  home.  Not  a  cheerful  spot  certainly 
or  one  calculated  to  invite  the  weary  traveler.  It  was  a 
wild  spot,  but  Jim's  was  a  wild  nature;  and  long  years 
of  habit  had  ripened  in  his  heart  a  feeling  something 
like  love  for  it.  For  Jim  had  a  heart;  and  once  that 
heart  had  loved  something  better  than  Old  Roan  and 
the  gloomy  hut. 

Several  miles  farther  on  the  other  side  of  the  moun- 
tain lay  a  village  called  Glassville.  This  was  Jim's  na- 
tive place.  Here  he  passed  his  neglected  orphaned 
babyhood,  his  lonely  childhood,  and  in  fullness  of  time 
reached  man's  estate.  His  manhood  was  the  "ripe 
fruit' '  of  his  childhood — gloomy  and  reserved.  He  lived 
by  himself,  worked  faithfully  for  his  daily  bread,  made 
no  friends,  but  certainly  had  no  enemies.  Thus  he  lived 
till  his  twenty-seventh  year,  and  then  by  that  daring  in- 
consistency which  belongs  to  natures  like  his,  he  fell  in 
love  with  Nancy  Harke,  the  belle  of  the  rude  village. 
Poor  Jim!  He  hated  himself  for  his  folly;  but  he 
hugged  it  closer  to  him  every  day.  The  mad  thought 
of  trying  to  win  her,  or  even  daring  to  tell  his  love, 
never  entered  his  head.  He  fought  his  passion  silently 
and  manfully,  till  at  last,  like  all  smothered  fires,  it 


22  HEARTHSIDE   SKETCHES 

broke  out  one  day,  and  he  told  her  all,  and  in  despair 
begged  her  to  kill  him  for  his  presumption.  But  she  did 
nothing  of  the  kind.  She  turned  first  white  and  then 
red,  and  instead  of  plunging  a  dagger  into  his  breast, 
she  laid  her  pretty  brown  head  upon  it  and  whispered  : 
"I  won't,  Jim — because  I  love  you." 

Poor  Jim !  He  was  petrified.  He  could  not  think. 
He  felt  her  warm  light  form  nestling  on  his  breast,  but 
he  dared  not  press  it  closer,  fer  fear  the  dream  would 
fade  away.  But  Nancy  was  more  accustomed  to  such 
things,  and  slipping  her  plump  arm  around  his  neck, 
she  put  her  red  lips  close  to  his  face  and  said:  "Don't 
look  so,  Jim.  Ain't  you  glad?" 

Then  the  full  glory  of  his  joy  came  to  Jim.  He 
clasped  her  tight  in  his  strong  arms.  He  kissed  her 
with  the  hunger  of  a  lifelong  fast,  and  then  he  bowed 
his  head  over  her  and  wept  the  first  tears  he  had  shed 
since  babyhood.  From  that  time  he  was  a  changed  man. 
The  freshness  which  his  youth  had  never  known  was 
showered  over  him.  He  laughed,  he  danced,  he  sang. 
His  very  presence  seemed  to  scatter  sunshine.  Nancy 
consented  to  an  early  marriage.  Jim  selected  the  little 
clearing,  and  began  the  little  house  for  his  bride.  Many 
offers  of  help  were  made,  but  he  declined  them  all;  no 
hand  but  his  should  hew  a  log  for  the  house  that  was  to 
shelter  her  head,  and  his  axe  rang  sharp  and  fast,  and 
the  hut  approached  completion. 

The  main  part  was  done,  and  he  had  begun  the  lit- 


HEARTHSIDE    SKETCHES  23 

tie  shed,  which  he,  unknown  to  her,  had  added,  so1 
that  she  could  have  a  kitchen,  and  a  best  room,  and  in 
the  first  he  would  have  room  to  keep  a  pile  of  dry  sea- 
soned wood  for  her,  so  that  she  should  never  have  her 
eyes  spoiled  with  smoke. 

He  laughed  as  he  worked  on  this,  for  it  was  a  lux- 
ury unheard  of  in  the  village;  but  Nancy  was  a  woman 
unequalled  in  the  world,  and  four  rooms  would  not  be 
too  good  for  her.  The  frame  was  up,  and  the  clap- 
boards had  begun  to  make  a  show ;  one  more  week  and 
it  would  be  done.  And  then?  Jim's  heart  almost 
choked  him !  and  he  whistled  loud  to  swallow  a  sob. 
He  worked  hard  all  that  day,  and  when  the  sun  sank 
behind  the  tall  oaks,  even  his  happiness  could  not  dis- 
guise the  fact  that  he  was  very  tired;  but  he  whistled- 
gayly  as  he  picked  up  his  coat  and  began  his  long  walk.- 
It  was  dark  when  he  reached  the  village.  As  usual  he- 
went  at  once  to  Nancy's  home.  The  door  stood  open, 
but  no  Nancy  met  him,  and  all  within  was  dark.  He 
hesitated  on  the  threshold,  and  a  sob  came  from  the 
gloom.  A  chill  crept  over  him.  Could  it  be  that  she 
was  dead?  He  reeled  and  clutched  the  door.  It  swung 
back  with  a  bang,  and  a  thick  voice  asked:  "Who's 
there!"  It  was  her  mother. 

"It  is  I,  Jim.  For  Heaven's  sake,  don't  say  she's 
dead!" 

A  burst  of  sobs  was  her  reply,  and  groping  his  Way 
to  her,  Jim  grasped  her  shoulder  and  pleaded  : 


24  HEARTHSIDE    SKETCHES 

"Speak  Mis'  Harks,  or  ye'll  kill  me.  Say  she  ain't 
dead." 

"Better  dead!  better  dead!  Jim,  she's  gone  and 
disgraced  us  all!" 

"How  dare  you!"  cried  he;  "and  you  her 
mother!" 

"And  the  more  sorrow  to  me.  You  didn't  know  it, 
Jim,  but  that  city  chap  has  been  hanging  round  for 
more  than  two  weeks.  I  told  her  she  had  too  much  talk 
with  him,  but  she  wouldn't  take  heed.  This  morning 
she  went  off,  and  at  dark  little  Jack  ^immons  came  in 
and  told  us  how  he  met  her  on  the  mountain  road  with 
that  city  fellow;  and  she  called  out  to  him  and  said, 
'Tell  them  I'm  gone  forever,  Jack!'  and  then  the  man 
took  her  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her.  0  Jim !  O  Jim! 
What  shall  we  do?  And  you  so  good  to  her!" 

The  echo  gave  back  her  words ;  she  was  alone. 
Without  a  word,  without  a  moan,  Jim  left  the  house. 
He  looked  around  in  the  bright  starlight.  All  was 
strange.  He  saw  nothing  and  he  heard  nothing  but  that 
wagon  and  the  words  : 

"The  man  took  her  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her." 

Her  dog  sprang  up  and  put  his  nose  in  his  hand. 
He  pushed  him  aside,  and  then,  with  his  hands  out- 
stretched as  if  groping  in  the  dark,  he  walked  away 
toward  the  dark  shadows  of  the  mountains.  On,  on  he 
he  walked,  and  in  the  gray  dawn  he  sat  in  the  door  of 
his  desolate  house,  bowed  and  grizzled  as  though  by 


HEARTHSIDE    SKETCHES  25 

years.  All  day  he  sat  motionless,  and  at  evening  he 
heard  the  voices  of  his  friends,  who  had  come  to  seek 
him.  He  arose,  placed  the  unhung  door  before  the  door- 
way, and  put  his  back  agiinst  it.  In  vain  they  pleaded 
with  him.  He  was  immovable.  He  bade  them  go  and 
leave  him  to  himself,  and  at  last  they  did  so.  No  news 
was  heard  from  Nancy,  and  for  awhile  a  surreptitious 
watch  was  kept  on  Jim ;  but  as  he  declined  to  either  ac- 
cept or  resent  any  attention  offered  him,  he  was  finally 
abandoned  to  his  fate.  Years  passed  by.  Jim  never  re- 
turned to  his  native  village.  He  worked  faithfully,  but 
he  took  none  of  the  comforts  that  his  toil  could  buy. 
The  hut  grew  dilapidated,  and  the  clapboards  fell  off. 
He  let  them  lie;  even  the  door  was  never  screwed  to  its 
hinges,  which  lay  in  the  mould  by  the  doorway. 

Jim  allowed  himself  but  one  indulgence;  that  was 
whiskey.  As  years  passed  by  he  grew  fonder  of  it,  and 
often  on  their  return  from  town  through  dark  and  rain, 
it  was  Old  Roan's  instinct,  and  not  Jim's  hand,  that 
guided  her  over  the  rough  road. 

One  stormy  night  Jim  unhitched  Old  Roan  from 
the  post  and  started  for  home.  It  was  very  dark,  and 
soon  began  to  rain  hard.  Jim  was  nearly  drunk  when 
he  started,  but  the  cold  rain  beating  in  his  face  cooled 
his  brain,  and  by  the  time  he  reached  the  hut  he  was 
sober.  He  put  Old  Roan  into  the  shed,  and  then  cold 
and  wet,  he  crawled  into  his  scarcely  less  miserable  shel- 
ter. For  the  first  time  in  all  those  years  he  felt  a  chill 


26  HEARTHSIDE    SKETCHES 

of  loneliness  creep  over  him.  The  rain  dripped  from  his 
wet  clothes.  He  shivered,  and  put  up  the  door,  but  the 
chill  struck  deeper,  and  groping  his  way  to  the  door,  he 
gathered  an  armful  of  sticks.  He  took  them  in  and 
soon  a  bright  fire  blazed  in  the  chimney-place.  It 
warmed  Jim's  limbs  and  dried  his  clothes,  but  it  froze 
his  heart.  He  tried  to  shake  it  off.  He  took  down  a 
loaf  of  bread  and  cut  a  slice.  The  whiskey  jug  stood 
on  the  table,  but  he  turned  from  it  with  loathing.  He 
tried  to  eat  the  bread,  but  it  choked  him.  In  vain  he 
fought  the  feeling.  The  heaped-up  desolation  of  all 
those  years  had  broken  the  ice  at  last,  and  when  Jim 
stretched  his  form  on  the  clay  before  the  dancing  flames, 
tears  glistened  on  his  grizzled  beard.  He  slept  at  last — 
slept  and  dreamed  of  the  by-gone  days,  till  he  heard  a 
voice  cry :  "Jim!  Jim!" 

He  started  up.  The  fire  was  burning  low,  and  the 
storm  raged  harder.  The  past  and  present  were  so 
blended  that  nothing  seemed  real.  He  looked  around, 
and  his  eyes  drooped  heavily,  when  again  the  cry  came: 

"Jim!   Jim!     For  the  love  of  Heaven  hear  me  !" 

There  could  be  no  mistake  this  time;  the  cry  was 
real,  and  it  was  a  woman's  voice. 

Jim  sprang  up  and  lifted  aside  the  door,  and  there 
in  the  darkness,  drenched  by  the  pitiless  storm,  crouched 
a  woman.  Her  long  brown  hair  hung  dripping  over  her 
slight  form,  which  was  protected  by  a  thin  shawl.  She 
did  not  look  up  when  Jim  opened  the  door,  but 


HEARTHSIDE    SKETCHES  27 

crouched  lower ;  and  without  a  word  he  stooped  down, 
and  lifting  her  in  his  arms,  bore  her  to  the  fire.  The 
fagots  shot  up  a  fitful  light.  She  raised  her  head.  It 
was  Nancy !  Not  a  quiver  shook  Jim's  frame;  not  a 
sound  escaped  his  lips.  Replaced  her  on  the  only  seat, 
walked  to  the  other  side  of  the  hearth,  and  folding  his 
arms,  looked  steadily  into  the  fire.  The  poor  dripping 
wretch  watched  him  with  eager  eyes.  He  seemed  like 
a  man  of  stone;  and  clasping  her  hands  over  her  breast, 
she  cried  : 

"Jim!   Jim!   don't  you  know  me?" 

'•Yes,  Nancy,  I  know  ye."  But  his  eyes  never  left 
the  fire. 

She  staggered  to  him  and  fell  at  his  feet. 

".Jim  !  for  the  love  of  the  good  God,  have  mercy  on 
me!  I  daren't  ask  you  to  forgive  me,  but  don't  drive 
me  out  in  the  cold  storm  again.  I  know  I  don't  de- 
serve it,  Jim,  but  have  mercy  on  me  as  you  would  on  a 
hurt  dog!" 

Jim's  face  worked  fearfully.     He  lifted  her  up. 

"Don't  Nancy.  It's  all  right.  I  know'd  you'd 
come  back  sometime.  It  has  been  a  good  while  to  wait, 
but  old  Jim's  here  to  take  care  of  ye  yet.  Come,  dry 
your  clothes  and  I'll  get  you  something  to  eat." 

He  put  her  seat  close  to  the  fire, and  taking  the  loaf, 
cut  a  slice  for  her.  She  ate  eagerly.  Jim  threw  more 
wood  on  the  fire  and  she  hovered  over  it  .  The  fire  dried 
her  clothes, but  its  warmth  could  not  thaw  the  chill  that 


28  HEARTHSIDE    SKETCHES 

froze  her.  The  pitiless  storm  had  done  its  work.  Her 
teeth  chattered,  but  her  cheeks  and  eyes  burned  with 
unnatural  brilliancy. 

Jim  filled  an  old  can  with  water  and  put  it  on  the 
coals.  It  was  soon  hot.  He  mixed  it  with  some  wrhiskey 
and  gave  it  to  her.  She  drank  it.  It  seemed  to  warm 
her  chilled  blood ;  her  teeth  stopped  chattering,  and  her 
head  drooped  on  her  breast.  Jim  took  hie  only  blanket 
and  spread  it  before  the  fire. 

"I  reckon  I  won't  want  it  to-night,  Nancy.  You 
lay  down  on  it  and  I'll  keep  up  a  fire." 

The  tired  woman  obeyed,  and  soon  she  was  in  a  deep 
sleep.  The  wind  shook  the  door,  Jim  got  up  and  put  a 
log  against  it  and  then  returned  to  his  seat  and  watched 
the  blaze  with  a  face  as  stolid  as  the  logs  he  threw  on, 
till  the  grey  dawn  crept  through  the  chinks  of  the  hut. 
Nancy  still  slept  heavily.  Old  Roan  neighed.  Jim  fed  her. 
Still  Nancy  slept  on,  and  Jim  sat  down  before  the  fire. 

The  sun  rose  brightly.  The  clouds  broke  away, and 
the  storm  was  over.  Jim  let  the  fire  go  out  and  stared  at 
the  blackened  logs.  Noon  came;  still  Nancy  slept,  and 
still  he  watched,  and  when  the  sun  went  down  he  was 
still  at  his  post.  All  this  time  Nancy  had  not  moved, 
but  as  the  twilight  deepened  she  grew  restless  and 
moaned.  Jim  went  to  her.  Her  lips  were  parched.  He 
moistened  them  with  water,  and  taking  off  his  coat  made 
a  pillow  of  it  for  her.  She  seemed  to  sleep  soundly 
again.  It  grew  dark  and  he  lighted  a  fire — suddenly  he 


HEARTHSIDE    SKETCHES  29 

heard  a  voice  call,  "Jim."  He  looked  aiound.  Nancy 
was  awake,  and  her  eyes,  like  two  burning  stars,  were 
fixed  on  him. 

"Well,  Nancy." 

"Come  here,  Jim." 

Her  voice  was  husky.  Jim  bent  over  her  and  saw 
that  the  flush  of  firs  had  died  away  and  a  gray  pallor 
was  creeping  over  her.  He  felt  a  cold  ice-like  grip  at 
his  heart  but  he  uttered  no  word. 

"Bend  closer,  Jim,  I'm  going  fast." 

A  great  gulp  of  agony  burst  from  him.  "No,  no, 
Nancy,  you  mustn't.  Think  how  long  I've  waited  for 
ye!  Ye  mustn't  go  so  soon." 

A  smile  passed  over  Nancy's  face,  and  then  she 
gasped.  In  a  moment  she  rallied.  "Jim,  I  must  tell 
you  how  sorry  I  am.  I  was  very  bad — but — " 

Her  voice  failed. 

"No.no,  Nancy!"  cried  he.  "Don't  talk  of  that;  it's 
past.  I  don't  hold  grudges.  Stay  with  me  now.  Don't 
leave  old  Jim." 

She  struggled  and  whispered  : 

"Take  me  in  your  arms,  Jim." 

The  brawny  arms  were  put  tenderly  about  her  and 
the  pale  face  nestled  close  to  the  weather-beaten  grizzled 
one. 

"Jim,  say  you  forgive  me." 

"I  always  did  that,  Nancy.  I  was  such  a  rough 
fellow,  you  see  ;  but  don't  talk  of  that.  0,  Nancy,  don't 
leave  me." 


30  HEARTHSIDE    SKETCHES 

The  eyes  were  fast  growing  heavy.  One  more  strug- 
gle for  words. 

"Kiss  me,  Jim." 

He  kissed  the  cold  lips. 

"God  bless  you  !     Good-bye." 

And  with  the  dark  story  of  her  life  untold,  and  that 
disjointed  prayer  for  forgiveness  the  only  atonement  for 
the  blight  she  had  put  upon  his  life,  Nancy's  spirit  went 
to  its  Maker. 

A  ghastly  film  gathered  over  her  eyes,  and  the  wax- 
en pallor  of  death  spread  over  her  face,  but  the  features 
were  quiet  and  peaceful,  and  in  the  flickering  moon- 
beams that  came  in  through  the  half-open  door  the  lips 
seemed  to  smile.  Despite  its  pallor,  the  face  was  more 
life-like  than  the  ashen  gray  one  that  bent  over  it.  He 
knew  she  was  dead,  but  he  drew  her  head  closer  and 
whispered  close  to  her  ear : 

"Nancy  !  Nancy, speak  once  more,  only  once  to  Jim." 

He  looked  eagerly  into  her  face,  as  if  he  thought  the 
pale  lips  would  answer  the  appeal ;  and  then  the  voice  of 
nature's  agony  burst  forth  in  a  cry,  half  shriek,  half 
groan.  He  laid  the  body  on  the  ground,  and  throwing 
himself  beside  it,  he  dug  his  nails  into  the  hard  clay, and 
great,  choking  fearful  sobs  broke  from  him.  Ah,  Jim! 
could  those  who  jeer  at  you  see  you  now,  they  would 
stand  with  bowed  heads  before  the  unveiled  majesty  of 
a  heart  their  puny  natures  could  not  fathom. 

Poor  Jim !  Poor  old  Jim  ! 


HEARTHSIDE    SKETCHES  31 

Hours  passed  and  stillJira  lay  on  the  ground.  His 
«obs  ceased,  but  his  fingers  still  dug  the  clay.  His  nails 
were  torn  and  his  blood  mingled  with  the  earth,  but  he 
did  not  feel  it.  The  fire  died  out,  and  only  the  moon- 
light fell  over  the  groveling  man  and  the  dead  woman. 
Presently  Jim  arose.  At  first  he  staggered  and  grasped 
at  the  empty  air.  He  stood  still  a  moment,  and  then, 
keeping  his  back  to  the  white,  dead  face,  he  went  to  the 
place  where  he  kept  his  tools.  He  took  down  his  spade 
and  went  out  of  the  hut.  The  moon  was  sinking  low 
and  the  tall  trees  were  casting  ghostly  shadows.  Jim 
went  to  the  tree  beneath  which  he  used  to  eat  his  dinners 
in  those  long  past  days  when  he  was  building  the  hut. 
Here  he  dug  Nancy's  grave.  The  black  hole  frowned 
blacker  in  the  deepening  gloom.  Jim  laid  his  spade  on 
the  mound  and  returned  to  the  dwelling.  He  stood  by 
Nancy  and  gazed  long  on  her  face.  This  time  no  moan  or 
sigh  escaped  him.  An  owl  hooted  above  his  head.  The 
sound  aroused  him.  He  knelt  beside  the  corpse.  His  face 
trembled,  and  he  laid  his  cheek  beside  hers  and  moaned 
as  a  mother  might  over  her  child.  He  kissed  her  cheek, 
brow  and  lips,  and  then  he  rolled  the  blanket  about  her, 
and  lifting  her  in  his  arms  carried  her  out  to  the  waiting 
grave.  He  laid  her  in,  threw  down  the  earth,  and 
heaped  up  the  mound,  and  then  with  a  quick  motion  cast 
the  spade  far  from  him  in  the  darkness.  The  moon  had 
sunk  behind  the  treetops  and  black  darkness  was  fast 
settling  over  all. 

Jim    went  back  to  the  hut.     Old   Roan  heard  his 


32  HEARTHSIDE    SKETCHES 

step  and  whinnied.  Jiro  went  into  his  stall.  Roan 
rubbed  his  nose  against  him,  but  he  got  no  answering 
caress.  Jim  put  the  little  corn  there  was  in  his  manger, 
took  off  his  halter,  and  went  out  leaving  the  door  open. 
He  stopped  a  moment  before  the  hut  door,  and  then 
walked  slowly  back  to  Nancy's  grave.  He  threw  him- 
self down  upon  it,  and  buried  his  face  in  his  hands. 

Saturday  came  round,  and  Jim  was  missed  at  the 
tavern.  The  men  said: 

"It's  queer." 

The  next  Saturday,  and  still  no  Jim,  and  curiosity, 
if  not  anxiety,  prompted  a  party  to  go  to  the  hut  to 
learn  the  cause  of  his  absence.  They  found  the  hut  de- 
serted, and  poor  Old  Roan  wandering  about  with  a  very 
disconsolate  expression  of  countenance.  They  searched 
the  hut  and  shed,  but  found  no  trace  of  Jim.  They 
were  cracking  many  jokes  over  his  probable  fate,  when 
a  cry  from  one  of  the  party,  who  had  been  exploring  the 
woods,  stopped  them.  They  hastened  to  him,  and 
found  him  at  the  grave.  They  stood  around  it  with 
pale  faces  and  hushed  breath.  Prone  upon  the  grave 
with  arms  out-stretched  above  it,  as  if  in  protection, 
lay  Jim.  We  have  said  the  place  was  not  a  cheerful  one. 
Now  it  seemed  a  very  charnel  house  to  these  men,  and, 
after  hurriedly  scooping  out  a  shallow  grave  beside 
Nancy's,  they  laid  all  that  was  mortal  of  great-hearted 
Jim,  within  it,  and  then  very  silently  and  quickly  re- 
tired from  the  spot,  and  Nancy  and  Jim,  slept  on  un- 
troubled. 


The  Old  MQQ'S  Story. 


MEN  talk   about  looking  backward    and    for- 
ward  over    life,   but   it  must    be   lonesome 
business,     especially    when    the     forwards 
don't  throw  much  light  on    the  backwards. 
"Well,  I'm    an  old    man — a   very  old  man,   come   to 
think  on  it — but  bless  you,  I  shall  be  a  young  one  again 
before  I've  half  got  that  lesson  by  heart. 

Somehow  the  years  don't  run  away  from  me.  The 
very  youngest  of  them  keep  me  company  down  hill  most 
sociable.  I  see  myself  quite  plain,  a  great  hulking  lad, 
seventeen  years  old,  sitting  in  the  old  place  at  the  vil- 
lage academy. 

There's  a  new  teacher  coming — "a  young  woman  to 
make  you  toe  the  equator,"  says  the  trustees;  and  I've 
got  a  pocketful  of  dried  pease  to  fire  at  the  stove-pipe, 
and  Jim  Hart,  who  sets  next  to  me,  has  got  the  Falls  of 
Niagara  to  construct  out  of  stones  and  half  a  bottle  of 
ink  before  she  comes. 

When  she  does,  and  walks  across  the  room  and  faces 
us  from  behind  her  table,  I've  got  one  pea  left,  but  some- 
how I  don't  fire  it,  and  Jim,  he  mops  up  the  Horseshoe 
Fall  with  the  sleeve  of  his  jacket. 

33 


34  HEARTHSIDE    SKETCHES 

Nellie  Lawton — we  know  her  name — don't  look  a 
day  older  than  sixteen,  and  the  color  is  a-coming  and 
a-going  in  her  face,  and  the  spring  air  from  the  open 
window  is  a-blowing  her  soft  hair.  She  tries  to  steady 
herself  by  one  hand  resting  on  the  table,  but  the  trem- 
ble all  gets  into  her  voice  when  she  speaks. 

"I  hope  we  may  have  a  pleasant  school  together; 
if  you  wish  it  half  as  much  as  I,  we  may,  indeed." 

She  has  more  to  say,  but  it  don't  come  out,  on  ac- 
count of  the  tremble.  Jim  winks  at  me. 

"Easy  time  ahead — small  cat,  afraid  of  mice." 

They  don't  turn  out  easy  times  for  the  poor  little 
teacher.  Every  morning  she  comes  to  her  desk  with  an 
eager  look  in  her  eyes,  and  every  night  she  goes  away, 
sorry  and  tired. 

The  old  apple  tree  that  got  pretty  much  thinned  out 
under  the  last  master,  sprouts  out  surprising  this  sum- 
mer, and  wickedness  sprouts  out  of  us  boys  just  as  fast. 

When  things  are  at  their  worst  she  says  she  must 
speak  to  Squire  Hart, but  she  bears  and  bears  beyond  be- 
lief. 

Well,  one  day  I've  cut  Algebra  and  up  stream  fish- 
ing. Afterwards  I  hear  how  one  of  the  worst  lads 
climbed  into  a  tree  near  Miss  Nellie's  window,  and  threw 
a  kitten  clean  through  it,  crash  on  her  table,  and  how 
she  took  up  the  scared  thing,  and  stood  up  and  blazed 
out  words  that  stuck  like  needles  into  every  boy  in  the 
room. 


HEARTHSIDE    SKETCHES  35 

Well,  I'm  on  one  side  of  the  log  bridge  fishing.  On 
a  sudden  I  hear  a  sobbing,  and  peeking  under,  I  see  our 
teacher's  pretty  head  dropped  into  her  hands.  The 
worst  boy  couldn't  stand  such  a  sight  as  that,  and  though 
there's  a  big  cat-fish  tugging  at  my  line,  I  don't  haul 
him  in,  but  just  cut  it  and  slip  back  to  school,  only 
stopping  to  pick  a  bunch  of  apple  blossoms.  She  is 
fond  of  them,  and  I  lay  it  on  her  table. 

It's  recess,  but  I  manage  to  get  the  boys  around  me, 
and  tell  them  how  the  little  schoolma'am  looked,  sob- 
bing at  the  bridge.  We  are  sitting  quiet  at  our  desks 
when  she  comes  in,  pale  and  sad.  She  sees  the  flowers; 
she  gives  a  quick  glance  around  the  room,  and  comes 
right  down  into  the  middle  of  us  boys,  a  happy  light 
shining  in  her  eyes,  a  bright  color  trembling  on  her 
face — like  no  flowers  you  ever  saw.  Then  she  speaks  the 
words  our  ugliness  has  kept  back  so  long. 

"Boys,  I  want  you  to  be  my  good  helpful  brothers. 
A  sister  can  teach  many  things,  not  in  books,  to  her 
brothers.  I  do  want  to  make  order  right  to  you.  I 
want  to  make  goodness  and  pureness  of  heart  seem  so 
beautiful  to  you  that  you  will  strive  for  them  with  all 
your  might." 

Ah,  it's  a  great  thing  for  a  gentle  woman  to  put  her 
hand  on  a  boy's  arm  and  call  him  brother.  There  was 
not  a  boy  of  us  that  didn't  feel  as  if  virtue  came  to  him 
from  it. 

It  would  be  hard  to  make  you  understand  the  many 


36  HEARTHSIDE    SKETCHES 

kinds  of  learning  we  got  from  Nellie  Lawton.  But  for 
her,  I'd  never  seen  anything  but  griddle  cakes  in  a  buck- 
wheat field  a-blossom,  and  there  wasn't  a  boy  in  Hunts- 
ville  who  used  to  see  more  than  cider  and  apple 
dumplings  in  an  apple  orchard  in  June. 

And  Nellie, — well,  some  folks  call  it  flighty  to  set 
such  store  by  common  things,  but  I  take  it  as  special 
kind  in  the  Lord,  seeing  she  had  no  home  folks,  to 
make  His  outdoors  more  a  home  to  her  than  their  chim- 
ney corner  is  to  most  folks.  I'd  like  to  know  what  to 
make  of  that  queer  sense  that  begins  where  the  other 
five  leave  off.  After  all,  it  may  be  just  the  extra  lov- 
ing heart  she  had.  You  can't  be  friends  with  a  butter- 
cup, and  on  comfortable  terms  with  the  Hrds  without 
having  a  tender  feeling  for  them. 

She  took  walks  with  us  out  of  school,  and  we  got 
to  have  a  fellow  feeling  for  all  creeping  and  flying  things. 
She  put  hearts  into  our  eyes  and  eyes  into  our  fingers. 
But,  I  could  go  on  heaping  up  words,  when  one  touch  of 
her  hand  would  tell  it  all. 

So  two  years  pass  by,  and  school  is  out,  never  to 
keep  any  more  in  the  old  way.  Nellie  and  I  have  been 
up  to  the  pond  for  wrater  lilies.  The  sun  is  up  quite  a 
piece  when  we  get  to  them,  and  when  we  leave  off  pick- 
ing, there's  the  moon  like  a  round  ball  of  silver,  laying 
on  the  water,  and  the  dark  pads  are  rocking  the  half 
shut  lilies  like  a  tender  mother. 

We  take  our  own  time   coming  home.     I    take  it 


HEARTHSIDE    SKETCHES  37 

there's  no  better  sight  in  the  world  than  walking 
through  sloping  meadows,  with  the  moon  at  your  back, 
and  the  first  star  in  the  west  nearer  on  a  line  with  your 
feet  than  the  little  village  down  below.  The  sky  so  red 
under  the  star,  and  such  a  pale  yellow  over  it,  and  sweet 
elderblow  scents  stealing  after  you  from  corners  of 
fences.  Ah,  do  you  wonder  that  we  take  our  time  for 
it?  Besides,  it  was  Nellie  and  her  scholar  lad  who 
scrambled  up  this  path,  but  I  come  down  a  full  grown 
man,  because  there's  a  kind  little  hand  in  mine,  and 
somewhere  in  the  world  there's  a  home  for  me  to  make 
for  a  good  woman. 

You  wouldn't  have  guessed  it,  but  up  there  on  that 
big  rock  in  the  upper  meadow,where  we  stopped  to  braid 
the  stems  of  the  lilies,  Nellie  promised  to  be  my  wife. 

That  general  home  feeling  in  Nellie  makes  it  easy  to 
start  for  the  West,  and  our  pockets  being  low  and  our 
hearts  high,  we  don't  stop  until  we  get  where  land's 
about  nothing  and  muscle  everything. 

There's  a  long  summer  before  us  to  build  our  house 
in  and  get  settled.  I  get  Nellie  comfortably  fixed  at  an 
old  settler's  and  one  fine  morning  I  take  her  to  see  the 
first  log  of  our  new  house  laid. 

''Five  miles  away  from  the  nearest  neighbor,  dear," 
I  say,  a  bit  down-hearted  for  her,  but  she  laughs  merri- 

iy- 

N  >  chance  for  you  to  run  away  from    school    here, 
Henry." 


38  HEARTHSIDE    SKETCHES 

It's  a  different  thing,  taking  your  bride  into  a 
ready  made  house  so  fine  and  big  that  you  get  acquainted 
with  your  own  children  before  you  do  with  some  of  its 
crannies,  from  what  it  is  to  lay  the  foundation  yourself, 
your  wife  drawing  you  down,  hammer  in  hand,  to  kiss 
the  corner  beam  in  your  little  home. 

It  goes  up  steady  and  cheery,  and  by  the  time  the 
first  smoke  puffe>  out  of  the  chimney  Nellie's  garden  looks 
like  a  prairie  full  of  flowers  squeezed  into  a  back  yard. 

With  woman's  work  indoors  and  man's  out,  and  love 
to  make  light  of  both,  we  never  stopped  to  think  of  be- 
ing lonely  till  our  first  child  comes  to  show  us  that  the 
world  was  nothing  like  full.  Another  in  good  time  tells 
the  same  story,  but  we  planned  for  them  when  we  built 
the  five  good  rooms,  and  Nellie — her  arms  never  seemed 
over-full. 

Work  opens  the  way  to  more  work.  There's  new 
ground  to  be  broken  for  crops,  draining  to  be  done,  tim- 
ber cut,  outbuildings  built,  beginnings  in  the  way  of 
stock  looked  to. 

I  suppose  a  city  man,  coming  home  from  work, don't 
have  to  look  at  his  own  door-plate,  though  there  are  a 
dozen  more  houses  beside  his  after  the  same  pattern;  but 
when  a  man  comes  out  of  the  woods  on  a  winter's  night, 
and  under  all  heaven  sees  just  one  roof  and  a  light  from 
one  window  making  a  track  to  him  across  the  snow, 
— what  does  home  mean  then? 

Our  first  boy  and  third  child  was  six  weeks  old  that 


HEARTHSIDE    SKETCHES  39 

night.  (No  longer  the  sweet  confusion  of  times  and  ten- 
ses in  the  old  man's  story.  What  year  was  this  that  it 
should  be  dropped  from  the  companionship  of  its  fel- 
lows?) 

Nellie  would  meet  me  here,  she  said,  at  the  garden 
gate,  at  sundown,  to  show  me  how  strong  and  well  she 
was. 

I  brought  the  cows  in  from  pasture  earlier  than 
usual,  not  to  keep  her  waiting  at  the  gate. 

But  she  wasn't  there, and  that  kind  of  pleased  me — 
to  think  of  Nellie's  not  being  where  she  said  she  would. 
I  leaned  on  the  gate  a  minute. 

The  air  was  warm  and  still,  but  there  wasn't  a  win- 
dow open,  which  didn't  look  like  Nellie.  Her  patch  of 
flowers  looked  wilted,  and  I  picked  one  to  show  her — 
but  I  didn't  trouble  her  with  it. 

Our  time  for  such  joys  as  flowers  stand  for  in  life 
was  gone  by.  I  didn't  turn  to  stone  when  I  opened  the 
door ,  yet  there  was  my  wife — my  wife — crouched  in  the 
corner  like  a  wild  thing,  and  the  baby  at  her  breast  was 
purple. 

"Nellie!  '  I  said.  She  was  moaning  and  rocking 
herself,  and  then  I  saw  the  baby  was  not  dead,  but  that 
she  was  pressing  out  its  life  in  the  arms  God  gives  a 
mother  to  cradle  her  babes. 

I  laid  hold  of  her  wrists.  If  the  boy's  life  had  de- 
pended on  it  I  couldn't  have  hurt  her.  I  held  her  and 
looked  into  her  eyes.  That  was  as  long  as  most  men 


40  HEARTHSIDE    SKETCHES 

would  care  to  live — the  length  of  that  look.  She  shud- 
dered more  and  more  ;  her  arms  fell,  and  the  child  slip- 
ped into  mine.  Then  I  remembered  that  I  was  a  father. 
Sometime  in  heaven  or  on  earth  my  Nellie  would  ask 
me  about  our  child. 

So  I  left  her  and  worked  over  him  till  I  saw  his 
little  fingers  fumbling  in  a  feeble  way,  and  the  purple 
dying  out  of  his  face.  Then  I  was  free  to  go  to  her.  I 
got  hold  of  her  wild  hands,  and  held  her  to  my  heart, 
thinking  the  old  place  would  seem  homelike,but  it  mad- 
dened her  into  strength  to  fling  me  aside. 

I  can't  tell  it — not  that  part — my  true  Nellie  was 
the  gentlest  woman  that  ever  lived,  and  the  demon  of 
insanity  is  not  strong  enough  to  put  anything  more  than 
terror  and  wildness  into  a  pure,  sweet  soul  like  hers. 

It's  queer  when  a  man's  mind  gets  hold  of  bad  news 
how  it  passes  along  inch  by  inch  to  his  heart.  My  wife 
crazed,  a  six  week's  old  baby,  and  two  little  women,  the 
oldest  just  turned  five.  I  believed  the  whole  of  it  with 
my  head,  and  less  than  half  of  it  with  my  heart.  That 
was  an  awful  night,though  after  I'd  given  the  little  things 
bread  and  milk  and  heard  their  little  prayers,  and  put 
such  comforts  as  my  poor  girl  might  need  in  her  reach, 
and  got  settled,  with  baby  wrapped  up  in  my  arms  at 
her  door,  and  when  along  toward  morning  her  breath 
came  steady  to  my  ears  like  music, it  wasn't  so  bad. 

There  was  no  one  in  those  parts  who'd  work  for 
Jove  or  hire  under  the  same  roof  with  a  "mad  woman." 


HEARTHSIDE    SKETCHES  41 

When  it  got  noised  about  folks  fought  shy  of  us.  They 
didn't  find  it  convenient  to  pass  by  often, but  that  I  didn't 
mind  as  long  as  we  could  keep  together.  I  doubt  if  you 
understand  what  the  keeping  together  meant — the  wo- 
man's work  to  be  learned  and  the  man's  work  to  be  for- 
gotten, or  the  most  of  it,  all  but  looking  after  the  cattle 
and  fodder,  and  enough  vegetables  to  make  us  sure  of  a 
meal. 

Sometimes  I  took  my  boy  out  on  one  arm  while  I 
hoed  the  garden.  It's  surprising  how  I  slipped  into  wo- 
man's ways.  Sometimes  I've  thought  I  tried  to  do  too 
much,  but  it's  curious  the  feeling  I  had. 

You  know  when  a  friend  dies  there's  a  deal  of  com- 
fort in  doing  what  he  figured  to  do  with  us;  and  there 
was  Nellie's  awful  eyes  full  of  questions  that  her  tongue 
could  not  speak  in  the  natural  way. 

"Myramust  learn  to  cipher  soon,  and  Olive  ought 
to  know  her  letters, "  she  had  said  before  her  mind  went 
on  its  dark  journey.  So  I  set  rayself  of  nights  to  mak- 
ing copies  and  figures,  with  a  little  woman  on  each 
knee.  Poor  work  I  made  of  it  to,  with  my  heart  in  the 
room  where  she  sat  days  and  nights  sometimes,  with  her 
hands  clasped, and  her  mind  a  journeying  in  foreign  coun- 
tries that  I'd  have  given  worlds  to  have  had  a  guide-book 
to. 

But  I  kept  braced  up  to  the  work  by  thinking  to 
myself  how  proud  I'd  be  when  she  came  back,  to  show 
our  little  scholars,  and  how  the  old  smile  that  used  to 


42  HEARTHS1DE    SKETCHES 

follow  me  like  a  streak  of  sunshine  would  bless  me 
again. 

For  I  never  altogether  gave  up  hope,  not  at  her 
worst — not  even  when  I  turned  eick  binding  up  her  poor 
hands  that  she  had  bruised  against  the  wall  when  the 
terrors  came  on. 

Between  her  room, that  I  had  to  keep  locked  mostly, 
and  the  general  living  room  where,  after  the  trouble 
came,  I  got  into  the  way  of  working  and  eating  and 
sleeping,  there  was  a  thin  boarding,  papered  as  neat  as 
we  could  do  it  at  building  time. 

You  see  I  fixed  her  bed  close  to  it  on  one  side,  and 
my  cot  as  close  on  mine — nothing  between  us,  looking  at 
it  one  way,  but  a  board,  but  there's  other  longitudes 
and  latitudes  than  the  school  books  tell  of,  and  I  used  to 
lie  awake  trying  to  draw  some  line  that  would  touch  us 
two.  Yes, I've  laid  there  with  baby's  soft  breath  a  com- 
ing and  going  in  one  ear,  and  his  mother's  voice  singing 
low  and  talking  wild  in  the  other,  till  I've  gone  almost 
mad,  and  crawled  away  from  boy's  side,  and  out  un- 
der the  stars,  fighting  for  the  next  breath. 

Our  little  house  always  had  room  for  our  joy,  but 
it  choked  me  in  my  grief,  and  I  used  to  rush  out  for  a 
great  breath  of  air,  and  find  somehow,  the  sky  too  low, 
and  the  stars  too  thick,  and  the  prairies  too  cramped. 
Walking  up  and  down  the  fields  so,  fighting  my  trouble, 
I  used  to  conjure  up  ways  of  calling  her  back. 

The  old  flute  that  she  liked  and  the  boys  made  fun 


HEARTHSIDE    SKETCHES  43 

of — I  remembered  that  one  night,  and  I  said:  "Oh!  if 
I  could  make  it  speak  in  the  old  way  in  Nellie's  ear.  Who 
knows — ."  I  found  it  wrapped  up  in  an  old  lace  kerchief 
of  hers.  If  you'll  believe  it,  I  laid  down  with  it  in  my 
hand  and  slept  like  a  baby.  Somehow  I  could  sleep — 
with  a  hope  in  my  hand. 

The  day  after  I  was  in  a  fever  to  try  it.  I  took  it 
out  to  the  potato  patch,  and  between  hoeing  and  tooting 
nigh  forgot  boy's  dinner.  There  wasn't  a  human  being 
right  or  left  to  call  me  a  fool  for  sitting  down  right  in 
the  melons  and  potatoes,  puffing  and  blowing  at  "Annie 
Laurie"  and  "Sweet  Home"  and  "Land  o'  the  Leal." 
Bit  by  bit  they  came  back  to  me,  or  I  went  back  to  them, 
for  I  Deemed  to  grow  down  to  a  boy  again,  and  which 
was  her  voice  and  which  the  flute's,  I  couldn't  have  told. 
I  made  sure  the  sounds  shouldn't  reach  her  until  the 
time  came. 

The  day  worried  by.  I  wasn't  as  patient  as  I  should 
have  been,  tucking  up  the  children  that  night,  and  hear- 
ing their  prattle,  on  account  of  such  a  hope  and  fear 
tugging  at  my  heart. 

At  last  I  was  free.  I  had  the  flute  in  my  hand.  I 
crept  round  the  house,  through  the  grass,  to  her  open  win- 
dow,that  faced  toward  the  moon.  It  spread  over  the  floor 
like  a  silver  matting,  and  at  the  other  end  she  was  sit- 
ting, her  white  hands  folded  in  her  lap  a-journeying. 

The  wind  wouldn't  come  at  first,  not  a  breath,  not 
a  sound.  Then  ]  grew  strong  ;  that  flute  played  "Home, 


44  HEARTHSIDE    SKETCHES 

Sweet  Home,"  as  if  it  was  calling. us  both  back  to  each 
other  again.  I  hadn't  touched  it  for  years,  but  I  played 
as  happier  lovers  never  play  to  their  sweethearts. 

She  turned  her  head  toward  the  sound.  She  got  up 
and  walked  slow  down  the  room — on  the  road  home,  I 
thought.  At  last — one  hand  resting  against  the  wall,  her 
lips  parted.  I  seemed  to  hear  the  song  on  them.  Where 
the  flute  got  breath  from  to  play  on  and  on, I  don't  know, 
for  I  was  getting  ready  to  meet  her  at  the  journey's  end. 

Not  that  there  was  much  getting  ready  to  be  done; 
her  place  had  been  kept  empty  and  clean  swept  against 
her  coming,  always.  She  came  quite  close — the  flute 
went  on,  faint,  but  on — till  quicker  than  a  thought,  she 
struck  it  from  my  mouth,  with  that  moaning  sound  that 
hurt  me  so,  and  that  beating  motion  of  the  arms  as  if 
to  put  the  world  between  us. 

From  that  hour  I  lost  heart.  The  whole  night  went 
by  while  1  crouched  under  her  window  in  the  wet  grass, 
with  just  one  dull  wish  —  to  see  her  asleep,  so  I 
could  cover  her  up  like  the  children,  and  give  her,  unbe- 
known, one  pitying  kiss. 

Nothing  new  happened  that  winter,  except  that  the 
boy  took  sick,  and  I  had  hard  work  to  bring  him  out. 

The  little  girls  were  comforts — only  a  man  who  has 
tried  his  poor  best  to  be  a  mother  knows  the  sadness  of 
such  comfort.  Besides  their  little  studies,  I  took  up  a 
new  one  for  myself.  I  sent  for  big  medical  books  about 
madness.  I  pored  over  them  nights.  I  got  the  ideas  of 


HEARTHSIDE    SKETCHES  45 

the  wisest  men  in  the  world  on  all  forms  of  madness.  I 
weighed  and  considered  them,  and  changed  Nellie's  food 
and  treatment  according. 

Yon  see  I'd  settled  long  before  never  to  send  her  to 
an  asylum.  What  love  couldn't  do — love  ready  to  take 
lessons  of  science,  and  square  its  ways  according — love 
such  as  mine  couldn't  do,  nothing  could. 

When  spring  came,  whether  owing  to  my  book- 
knowledge  or  not,  she  changed.  The  spells  of  terror 
came  on  seldom  :  a  wishful  look  grew  in  her  eyes  that 
was  harder  yet  to  see.  She  walked  about  gentle  and 
melancholy,  as  if  she  was  stepping  on  graves.  As  soon 
as  the  days  got  warm  enough  I  spent  much  of  the  time 
keeping  watch  on  her  while  she  crept  through  the  woods 
by  herself,  picking  her  dress  full  of  leaves  and  flowers, 
then  throwing  them  all  out  and  beginning  over 
again.  At  other  times  she  was  so  bent  on  something, 
she  would  walk  over  a  bed  of  violets  without  seeing 
them,  and  lead  me  a  tramp  of  miles,  sometimes  calling 
in  her  sweet  voice:  "Henry!  Henry!" 

The  first  time  I  heard  it  I  sprang  from  behind  the 
stump  where  I  was  watching  her,  but  it  wasn't  me 
she  wanted,  that  was  clear.  And  I  thought  the  name 
was  just  a  memory  come  back  to  her,  and  was  thankful 
only  for  the  sound  of  it  again. 

Well  the  year  ended  at  last.  Just  such  warm, 
long  days,  just  such  sundowns,  with  the  light  slanting 
across  the  fields  as  when  Nellie  left  me  a  year  ago.  The 


46  HEARTHSIDE    SKETCHES 

time  set  me  thinking.  Was  there  one  thing  I  hadn't 
tried!  That  look  into  a  woman's  heart,  got  in  caring 
for  the  boy,  put  me  on  the  track  of  the  one  thing  I'd 
neglected.  You  see,  with  little  Myra's  help  I  had  man- 
aged to  keep  him  mostly  out  of  her  sight.  Now  what 
if  she  should  come  upon  her  baby  suddenly?  I  wrapped 
him  in  a  blanket — he  was  weakly  for  a  fourteen  months 
baby — and  carried  him  a  short  ways  into  the  woods,  and 
laid  him  on  the  moss  between  the  forked  roots  of  an  old 
stump.  He  was  a  patient  boy  always,  with  her  eyes, 
and  they  looked  up  to  me  grave  and  wise  as  if  they 
knew.  Then  I  brought  my  dear  out  quickly  from  the 
house,  as  though  for  her  afternoon  walk,  and  left  her 
not  far  from  the  stump,  while  I  hid,  as  usu.il  near  by. 

It  was  her  flower  day.  She  caught  up  her  skirt, 
and  threw  in  ever  fern  and  leaf  and  bit  of  mossy  bark 
in  her  way.  I  thought  the  boy  was  asleep,  but  pretty 
soon  he  gave  a  little  cry.  Nellie  stopped  and  turned  her 
head  that  way,  but  the  thought  of  the  flute  lay  like  a 
stone  on  my  heart.  At  the  next  little  cry  she  dropped 
her  skirtful  of  flowers  and  her  wishful  eyes  devoured 
every  leaf  and  shadow  till  they  fell  upon  her  baby. 

Her  face  at  that  minute  is  a  memory  for  an  old  man 
to  take  to  heaven  with  him — the  hunger  all  gone  out  of 
it,  her  eyes  a  feasting  on  that  bit  of  ground.  She 
went  on  tiptoe  toward  it,  flushing  like  a  girl,  the  moth- 
erhood deepening  in  her  eyes,  her  mouth  getting  ready 
for  kisses  and  lullabies,  her  arms  yearning  out  to  him. 


HEARTHSIDE    SKETCHES  47 

She  stooped  for  him.  I  had  no  fear  when  I  saw  how 
lightly  and  tenderly  she  handled  him  ;  how  she  bared  her 
breast  and  laid  his  little  face  against  it,  and  how  their 
eyes  seemed  to  feed  each  on  each. 

The  Lord  forgive  me,  but  a  wicked  pain  smote  my 
heart  in  seeing  how  the  mother-love  was  stronger  than 
the  wife-love.  Just  as  I  had  planned  to  bring  her  home 
to  my  breast,  she  had  taken  the  boy  to  hers.  But  it 
couldn't  last  alongside  of  such  joy,  and  when  I  saw  her 
moving  softly  toward  the  house, the  blessed  sun  splinter- 
ing on  her  through  the  tree?,  I  turned  my  face  to  the 
sweet  leaf-mould  and  thanked  Heaven. 


BABY  VIOLET. 

Sweet  little  messenger  of  love, 

Thou,  pure,  pale  blossom  from  above. 
To  earth  worn  hearts  and  vision  lent, 

Bearing  a  promise,  Heaven  sent. 

Within  thy  gentle,  tender  eyes, 

Earth  saw  the  light  of  Paradise, 

Celestial  flowers,  incense  rare, 

Still  clings  unto  thy  petals  fair. 

Among  us  this  fair  flow'ret  dwells, 

And  through  her  childish  grace  dispels 

Each  cloud  that  shadows  face  or  mood, 
With  winning  arts  of  babyhood. 


Little  Joe. 


IS  small  body  was  crooked,  but  his  large  soul 
was  straight — an  arrangement  much  to  be  pre- 
ferred to  a  crooked  soul  in  a  straight  body. 
His  poor  warped  body  made  your  heart  ache 
with  sympathy,  but  the  pure  soul  shining  out  of  his  pale 
face  and  pain-dimmed  eyes,  made  you  long  to  be  like 
him.  His  was  a  beautiful  face,  with  peace  written  all 
over  it.  The  soul  never  uttered  a  word  of  complaint ; 
but  you  could  not  help  feeling  it  was  greatly  cramped 
for  room. 

It  made  the  best  of  the  crooked  house  in  which  it  liv- 
ed, but  that  it  sometimes  longed  to  move  out  you  could 
discover  when  you  saw  that  peculiar  look  of  longing  in 
little  Joe's  eyes  deepen  and  his  face  glow  as  he  read : 
"For  we  know  that  if  our  earthly  house  of  this  taber- 
nacle were  dissolved,  we  have  a  building  of  God,  a  house 
not  made  with  hands  eternal  in  the  heavens." 

From  his  mother  he  inherited  his  beautiful  face  and 
gentle  spirit.  His  crooked  back  was  caused  by  his 
father,  though  little  Joe  would  never  admit  it.  Crazed 
by  drink  the  father  came  home  one  night,  and  when  lit- 

48 


HEARTHSIDE    SKETCHES  49 

tie  Joe  ran  to  meet  him  ;  a  cruel  kick  lay  the  little  fellow 
limp  and  moaning  at  his  mother's  feet. 

The  wife  never  forgave  him,  but  after  the  first  few 
weeks  of  suffering,  whatever  of  pain  little  Joe  felt  he 
kept  to  himself,  and  his  gentlest  look  and  brightest  smile, 
he  kept  for  his  father.  He  seemed  to  realize  that  his 
father's  mental  suffering  was  almost  greater  than  the 
thoroughly  repentent  man  could  bear. 

Little  Joe's  body  never  grew  after  that,  but  his  soul 
developed  fast.  His  love  for  flowers,  sunshine  and  mus- 
ic \vas  intense. 

It  was  wonderful  how  the  little  fellow's  soul  expand- 
ed in  the  next  few  years;  and  to  those  who  watched  him 
closely,  it  became  evident  that  he  must  soon  move  out  of 
that  distorted  body.  As  his  limbs  grew  weaker,  and  he 
came  nearer  to  eternity,  his  face  grew  brighter. 

But  one  thing  troubled  him,  and  that  was, who  was  to 
blame  for  his  crooked  back.  For  awhile  this  worried  him 
until  he  remembered  that  eternity  would  reveal  all  the 
mysteries  of  this  life;  then  he  contentedly  dismissed  the 
problem. 

It  was  a  bright  June  day  when  little  Joe  moved  out  of 
his  crooked  house  into  one  of  the  Father's  many  man- 
sions. The  cheeks  of  the  watchers  were  wet  with  tears, 
but  little  Joe's  face  was  radiant  with  the  "light  of 
Heaven." 


(\  Dutiful  Daughter. 


IF  the  little  stream  which  babbled  and  wound  its  shin- 
ing way  under  the  crazy  planks  of  the  little  foot- 
bridge at  the  bottom  of  the  Kenreath  meadow  had 

been  endowed  with  speech,  it  might  have  whispered 
some  very  pretty  secrets  to  the  green  rushes  that  bent 
over  its  margin  and  to  the  bright  pebbles  lying  at  its 
bottom  during  the  sunny  month  of  June  18 — . 

For  every  day  somehow,  pretty  Darrie  Morrison 
and  John  Kenreath  met  down  by  the  little  foot-bridge, 
with  only  the  stream  and  the  clouds,  the  grass  and  the 
flowers  to  hear  and  see. 

That  blissful  time,  when  prudence  goes  to  sleep — 
when  the  eyes  are  blind  to  all  but  one  face,  and  ears 
deaf  to  all  but  one  voice,  had  come  to  the  pretty  daugh- 
ter of  the  Morrisons'  and  to  the  penniless  young 
proprietor  of  the  barren  acres  of  Kenreath. 

Kind  Aunt  Mary  Morrison,  living  her  simple  life  as 
usual,  and  dozing  gently  over  her  embroidery  or  lace- 
work,  never  for  one  instant  suspected  the  truth. 

She  was  glad  to  see  Darrie  so  gay  and  happy — glad 
she  did  not  tire  of  life  with  her  at  the  quiet  priory  cot- 

50 


HEARTHSIDE    SKETCHES  51 

tage,  but  she  never  suspected  why  Darrie's  eyes  were  so 
bright  or  why  her  sweet  voice  was  so  merry.  She  would 
remonstrate  gently  sometimes  when  the  girl  came  flying 
in  from  one  of  the  lonely  rambles  she  was  so  fond  of 
taking,  with  her  curls  flying  and  her  hat  left  behind  her 
very  likely,  and  remind  her  that  she  was  grown  up  now, 
and  must  not  run  about  as  she  had  done  during  her  va- 
cation visits  from  school.  To  Aunt  Mary  the  foot-bridge 
was  just  so  many  old  boards,  mossgrown  and  worm- 
eaten,  and  not  at  all  the  glorified  medium  of  commun- 
ion which  it  was  to  this  heedless  couple. 

True,  both  stream  and  bridge  were  within  sight  of 
the  cottage  windows,  but  the  trees  of  the  grounds  were 
tall  and  thick,  and  had  she  looked  ever  so  earnestly  in 
that  magic  direction  she  would  never  have  seen  the  meet- 
ing between  her  pretty  niece  and  the  handsome  young 
owner  of  the  surrounding  meadow. 

So  the  weeks  went  on  until  one  day  a  letter  came 
from  Squire  Morrison,  Aant  Mary's  brother,  and  Darrie's 
father.  Aunt  Mary  read  it  with  a  cloud  upon  her  usu- 
ally placid  face — a  cloud  that  was  still  upon  it  when 
presently  Darrie  came  into  the  room,  singing  softly  and 
swinging  her  straw  hat  by  its  band  from  her  arm  as  she 
fastened  a  bunch  of  red  rosebuds  in  the  bosom  of  her  white 
gown.  But  she  stopped  at  the  grave  look  that  met  her 
from  her  aunt's  soft  brown  eyes,  and  the  blitheness 
died  from  her  face. 

"Why  Auntie,  what  are  you  looking  so  solemn 
abou  t  ?  Is  anything  wrong  ? ' ' 


52  HEARTHSIDE   SKETCHES 

"Yes,  my  dear — that  is,  no."  Aunt  Mary  hastily 
thrust  the  squire's  imwelcbme  epistle  into  her  pocket 
and  blushed  faintly.  "It  is  nothing,  love ;  but  I  want 
to  talk  to  you,  Darrie." 

"What is  it,  Auntie?     I  want  to  go  out." 

"Are  you  going  to  walk  this  morning?"  Aunt 
Mary  asked. 

"Not  now — presently.     It  is  not  time  yet." 

"Time?  "echoed  her  aunt.     "Time  for  what,  dear?" 

"Nothing — that  is,  I  mean  I  usually  go  later." 
The  brightest,  prettiest  of  blushes  spread  over  the  face 
of  the  girl  while  she  made  this  innocent  explanation ; 
but  Aunt  Mary,  fond  and  anxious,  did  not  notice  it. 
"What  do  you  want  to  talk  to  me  about  Aunt  Mary — 
anything  very  special." 

"I  have  a  letter  from  your  father,  Darrie.  He  is 
coming  here." 

"Oh!" — and  a  blank  look  of  discomfiture  and  dis- 
may succeeded  the  blush.  "How  horrid  !  What  is  he 
going  to  do  that  for?" 

"My  dear,"  her  aunt  remonstrated  with  shocked 
gentleness — "your- own  father!"  Darrie  tossed  her 
childish  golden  head  defiantty. 

"Well,  I  sometimes  wish  he  were  somebody  else's, 
although,  of  course  it  sounds  very  awful  to  say  so.  And 
is  he  really  coming  here?" 

"So  he  says.  He  tells  me  to  expect  him  sometime 
to-morrow." 


HEARTHSIDE    SKETCHES  53 

"Oh,  my  goodness!"  Squire  Morrison's  daughter 
cried  ruefully,  "and  what  is  he  coming  for,  Auntie?" 

"To — to^sce  you  of  course,  my  dear,"  Aunt  Mary 
replied  hesitatingly.  "You  will  be  glad  to  see  him, 
dear?" 

"Oh,  yes,  of  course,"  Darrie  conceded  promptly — 
"if  he  is  in  a  more  Christian  temper  than  when  I  saw 
him  last.  He  was  dreadfully  cross  when  I  said  goodbye 
to  him,  and  wouldn't  kiss  me.  But  I  suppose  he  feels 
better  now." 

"Yes,  yes,  love,"  her  aunt  replied  hastily.  "What 
made  him  so  cross,  dear?"  she  asked,  saying  of  all 
others  the  very  thing  she  did  not  want  to  say. 

"Oh,  you  know!"  and  wilful  Dnrrie  tossed  her 
saucy  head,  and  stamped  her  small  shoe  very  hard  upon 
the  floor.  "That — that  horrid  wretch  !" 

"My  darling  child  ! "remonstrated  her  aunt,  looking 
shocked. 

"Well,  but  he  is,  Aunt  Mary,"  said  Darrie  obstin- 
ately. "He's  ugly, and  bald, and  fat,  and  red  and  vulgar, 
and  I  hate  him  !"  viciously.  "He  is  rich,  and  he  made 
friends  with  papa,  and  he  came  to  Morrison." 

"Yes?"  Aunt  Mary  looked  down  at  the  golden 
head,  which  had  sunk  down  upon  her  knees  and  stroked 
it  tenderly.  "And  then,  Darrie?" 

"Then  he  asked  me  to  marry  him,"  was  the  stilled 
answer. 

"After  knowing  you  so  short  a  time!"  cried  the 
artled  lady. 


54  HEARTHSIDE    SKETCHES 

"He  had  seen  me  but  twice." 

"And  he  had  the  impertinence — what  was  your 
father  thinking  of,  child?" 

"My  father!"  Darrie  laughed,  sprang  to  her  feet, 
and  drew  up  her  little  figure. 

"He  did  not  think  it  impertinent,  Aunt  Mary.  He 
was  angry  because  I  said  'no' — more  angry  than  I  have 
ever  seen  him.  He  told  me  I  should  marry  Mr.  Joseph 
Parkinson,  and,  when  I  said  I  would  not  marry  a  man 
almost  as  old  as  himself,  and  who  was  so  coarse  and  vul- 
gar, he  laughed,  and  said  Parkinson  was  a  great  deal  too 
good  for  me,  and  that  I  should  marry  him  whether  I 
liked  or  not.  But  I  won't" — suddenly  bursting  into  a 
tempest  of  tears.  "I'd  sooner  die  than  marry  that 
dreadful  man,  and  if  he  dares  to  come  here  after  me, 
I  shall  tell  him  so.  " 

A  silence  followed  this  emphatic  declaration,  and 
Aunt  Mary's  soft  hand  stroked  her  child's  tumbled  gol- 
den hair  gently,  while  her  eyes  were  bent  with  a  troubled 
look  upon  the  squire's  letter. 

Her  brother's  account  of  Mr.  Joseph  Parkinson  was 
quite  different,  and  in  her  perplexity  she  wondered 
which  description  was  the  true  one.  In  Aunt  Mary's 
proud  eyes  the  man  did  not  exist  who  could  be  quite 
good  enough  for  her  Darrie.  She  asked  presently, 
with  her  hand  still  upon  the  girl's  head  : 

"Did  you  say  he  was  so  ugly,  dear?" 

"Ugly?"  echoed  Darrie,  turning  around  witn  an  as- 


HEARTHSIDE    SKETCHES  55 

tonished  stare;  "Oh  no,  Auntie?  He  is  very  handsome, 
I  think.  He  has  such  beautiful  eyes." 

"Mr.  Parkinson?"  queried  her  aunt  with  dubious 
wonder. 

"Mr.  Parkinson!"  The  little  lady  sprang  to  her 
feet  with  crimson  cheeks. 

"Oh,  I — I — didn't  know  you  meant  Mr.  Parkinson; 
Oh  yes,  he  is  awful,  Aunty — dreadful !" 

"Well,  darling,  you  must  forget  all  about  it  now," 
her  aunt  said  consolingly.  "I  must  go  and  see  about 
getting  your  father's  rooms  ready." 

Wilful  Darrie,  making  her  way  along  the  paths  of 
the  cottage  grounds  towards  the  point  where  the  little 
foot-bridge  spanned  the  stream, was  very  angry  and  very 
rebellious. 

The  squire's  letter  was  an  ugly  break  into  the  se- 
cret world  in  which  she  had  been  dreaming  for  some 
weeks  past,  and  it  had  brought  an  ugly  shadow  stalking 
grimly  behind — a  shadow  with  the  red  face,  loud  voice 
and  the  obtrusive  money  bags  of  Joseph  Parkinson. 

"I  declare,  I  have  a  great  mind  to  tell  him,"  said 
Darrie  wrathfully. 

She  said  it  just  as  she  reached  the  foot-bridge,  and 
might  possibly  have  carried  out  her  threat  but  for  the  alto- 
gether unexpected  absence  of  "him."  Darrie's  blue  eyes 
scanned  the  broad  green  meadow  keenly,  and  peered 
across  it  to  where  the  solid  chimneys  of  old  Kenreath 
House  rose  against  the  sky  beyond  it;  but  no,  there  was 


56  HEARTHSIDE  SKETCHES 

no  sign  anywhere  of  the  tall  figure  in  the  shabby  coat. 
He  had  absolutely  failed  to  come.  What  next?  The 
very  craziest  plank  on  the  foot-bridge  creaked  and  groaned 
as  a  small  shoe  was  brought  down  upon  it  with  great  ve- 
hemence in  a  decidedly  exasperated  stamp. 

"There,  on  this,  of  all  mornings,  he  hasn't  come!" 
she  cried,  aggrieved,  and  feeling  intensely  ill-used.  "It 
is  too  bad,  and  I  know  he  expected  me  to  come  because 
he  made  me  promise.  I  declare,  I've  a  good  mind  to  go 
right  back  and  never  come  any  more!" 

Here  Dairie  took  another  indignantly  wrathful  sur- 
vey of  the  meadow  with  exactly  the  same  result  as  before, 
and  soliloquized  again : 

"Well,  I  don't  believe  he  would  stay  away  on  pur- 
pose, after  all.  I'm  sure  he  wouldn't.  Perhaps  he  is 
bothered, poor  fellow ;  he  looked  troubled  yesterday.  Some 
tiresome  person  wants  to  be  paid  or  something,  I  sup- 
pose. I  shan't  be  able  to  come  to-morrow  and  papa 
might  see  him,  and  then  he  would  make  such  a  scene — 
I  know  he  would ! ' ' 

This  last  consideration  was  conclusive. 

The  dainty  little  figure  in  the  white  gown,  with  the 
red  roses  glowing  on  its  breast,  crossed  the  foot-bridge 
and  tripped  through  the  great  meadow  towards  the  gate 
which  led  out  into  the  lane.  "I'll  just  walk  a  little  way, 
.and  perhaps  I  shall  meet  him  coming,"  Darrie  said  to 
herself.  But  she  walked  more  than  a  little  way,  reached 
the  gate  in  fact,  without  doing  anything  of  the  kind, 


HEARTHSIDE    SKETCHES  57 

and  at  that  point  she  stopped,  hesitating,  peering  half- 
curiously,  half-shyly  through  the  wooden  bars.  There 
came  a  little  stretch  of  lane,  and  then,  on  the  opposite 
side,  the  white  gates  of  Kenreath,  open  as  they  mostly 
were,  and  beyond  them  the  old  house  itself,  a  very  pic- 
turesque, irregular  erection  of  soft  grays  and  dull  reds, 
strong  and  sturdy,  looking  quite  capable  of  sheltering  a 
long  line  of  Kenreaths  yet. 

''What  a  dear  old  place  it  looks,"  Darrie  murmured 
softly, a  faint  little  sigh  heaving  her  red  roses — "ever  so 
much  nicer  than  Morrison!  Oh,  my!"  as  two  great 
raindrops  falling  upon  the  little  hand  grasping  the  bar 
of  the  gate,  caused  the  little  lady  to  look  up  with  a  sud- 
denly scared  face.  A  great  sullen-looking  black  cloud 
hid  the  blue;  the  sun  had  gone  in,  the  large  raindrops 
fell  thicker  and  faster,  accompanied  by  a  loud  clap  of 
approaching  thunder. 

This  was  awful.  Darrie  had  plenty  of  courage, but 
she  had  also  a  mortal  dread  of  thunder  and  lightning. 
She  gave  one  frightened  glance  over  the  great  meadow, 
another  at  the  sky,  and  still  another  through  the  bars  of 
the  gate.  There  was  but  one  thing  to  do,  that  was  cer- 
tain— the  cottage  was  so  far  away  and  Kenreath  so  near. 

In  another  moment  Darrie  had  opened  the  gate, sped 
across  the  lane,  and  was  running  up  the  path  as  fast  as 
her  feet  would  carry  her. 

Now  it  chanced  that  John  Kenreath  was  more 
weatherwise  than  Darrie,  and  having  anticipated  the 


58  HEARTHSIDE    SKETCHES 

coming  thunder  storm,  had  made  up  his  mind  that  it 
would  be  useless  to  betake  himself  to  the  bridge,  think- 
ing there  would  certainly  be  no  chance  of  seeing  his  gol- 
den-haired divinity  that  day. 

Having  nothing  in  particular  to  do  he  did  not  go 
out,  but  was  standing  by  the  wide  window  in  the  great 
hall,  looking  dolorously  out  upon  the  drenched  landscape 
when  a  rapid  patter  of  flying  footsteps  sounded  up  the 
path,  and  he  turned  his  head  toward  the  open  hall  door 
as  the  little  white  figure,  panting  and  breathless  dashed 
in. 

John  made  two  strides  forward  and  took  two  little 
wet  hands  tightly  in  his  own. 

"Miss  Darrie!"  he  ejaculated. 

"Yes,"  Darrie  panted,  clinging  to  his  hands,  and 
shivering  as  another  clap  of  thunder  rolled  over  the 
roof.  "I  didn't  notice  the  storm  coming  up, and  I  had 
walked  down  to  the  gate  in  the  meadow  when  it  began 
to  rain.  And  it  was  so  far  home,  and  so  near  here,  I 
thought  you  wouldn't  mind  if  I  came  in  here,  perhaps. 
Lightning  frightens  me,  and  I  am  so  wet." 

John  cast  a  rueful  look  at  her  clinging  white  gown. 
"You  will  take  cold,"  he  said  hastily.  "You  must  come 
to  the  fire — there's  one  in  the  kitchen,  I  suppose.  And 
he  hurried  her  down  the  crooked  passage  into  the  great 
farm  kitchen  where  a  huge  fire  flared  from  the  wide 
hearth. 

Mrs.  Jenners,  with  her  sleeves  rolled  up  above  her 


HEARTHSIDE    SKETCHES  59 

round  elbows  as  she  moulded  cakes  at  a  spotless  deal 
table,  dropped  her  rolling  pin  and  stared  in  astonish- 
ment at  the  little  figure  in  the  wet  white  gown,  with 
raindrops  glittering  upon  its  golden  hair.  John,  eager 
and  excited,  pulled  a  great  arni-chair  before  the  blazing 
fire,  and  placed  Darrie  in  it.  Then  turning  quickly  to 
the  amazed  housekeeper,  he  said  : 

"This lady  has  been  caught  in  the  storm,  Mrs.  Jen- 
ners.  See  to  her,  will  you?  Don't  let  her  take  cold, 
and  make  her  comfortable,  mind."  And  then,  stooping 
to  whisper  in  Darrie's  ear  that  he  would  come  back  soon, 
he  went  out,  to  pace  up  and  down  the  hall  in  a  pleasant 
maze  of  bewildered  excitement,  and  wonder  if  he  were 
not  dreaming. 

Mrs.  Jenners  came  out  and  called  him  before  he 
had  time  to  make  up  his  mind  on  this  point,  and  he 
went  back  to  the  kitchen  to  find  Darrie,  with  a  scarlet 
wrap  folded  over  her  white  dress,  and  her  little  stock- 
inged feet  stretched  out  upon  the  fender,  where  a  pair 
of  absurdly  small  shoes  were  placed  to  dry.  She  looked 
very  comfortable  and  perfectly  at  home,  and  she  gave 
him  the  shyest,  sweetest  smile  as  he  came  up  to  her 
great  chair. 

"Don't  I  look  very  comfortable?"  she  asked  him. 

"I'm  afraid  you  don't  feel  so,"  John  said. 

Only  he  himself  knew  how  often,  in  sweet,  vague, 
impossible  presumptions  dreams,  he  had  had  visions  of 
her  sitting  thus  at  hie  fireside.  Now  she  was  there  in  re- 


60  HEARTHSIDE    SKETCHES 

ality,  her  blue  eyes  smiling  up  into  his,  and  he  felt  more 
hopelessly  put  asunder  from  her  than  ever  before. 

For  John  Kenreath  had  never  breathed  a  word  of 
love  to  Squire  Morrison's  daughter.  Of  course  she 
knew  he  adored  her,  he  thought,  and  if,  knowing  it,  it 
still  pleased  her  to  be  gracious  to  him  during  these 
cloudless  summer  days,  why,  it  was  very  well.  No  one 
would  suffer  but  himself,  when  all  was  over.  For  John 
was  afraid  to  read  or  believe  in  the  story  which  her 
voice  and  eyes  had  told  him,  almost  as  plainly  as  his 
had  told  her. 

Both  were  embarrassed  by  this  novel  condition  of 
affairs,  though  both  found  it  vaguely  delightful,  and 
perhaps  this  was  the  reason  why  their  talk  took  a  very 
practical  turn. 

It  lasted  until  Mrs.  Jenners  after  taking  the  last 
batch  of  cake  from  the  oven,  left  the  room,  and  then 
Darrie  leaning  back  cosily  in  the  great  chair,  said : 

"What  a  dear  old  place!  I  don't  wonder  you  are 
fond  of  it." 

"Do  you  like  it?"  John  asked  surprised.  "I  thought 
you  would  find  it  dreadfully  shabby  and  old." 

"Shabby!"  Darrie  echoed.  "I'm  afraid  you  don't 
know  my  tastes  very  well,  do  you?  Why  I  think  it  such 
a  dear  comfortable  old  place." 

"After  t'ae  cottage?"  John  echoed. 

"Yes,  even  after  the  cottage,"  Darrie  laughed,  "but 
I  was  thinking  of  it  as  compared  with  Morrison. 


HEARTHSIDE   SKETCHES  61 

"But  Morrison  is  nothing  like  my  poor  old  place,  I 
should  think,"  John  said;  "is  it?" 

'•Indeed,  it  is  not" — and  the  slim  shoulders  undor 
the  scarlet  wrap  gave  a  very  decided  shrug.  "Morrison 
is  very  gloomy  and  dark  and  lonely.  Oh,  I  mean  it 
really  !  Morrison  is  dreadful.  It  frightens  me  with  its 
great  gloomy  corridors,  and  darkened  mouldy  rooms." 

'•You  don't  like  Morrison  then?" 

"I  hate  it!"  said  Darrie  vigorously. 

"And  you  would  not  like  to  live  there,  I  suppose?" 

"Live  there!"  cried  this  degenerate  daughter  of  the 
Morrisons.  "Why,  I  wouldn't  live  there  for  the  whole 
world  !  I  told  papa  so." 

"You  would  say  the  same  of  Kenreath  before  long, 
I'm  afraid,"  the  master  of  Kenreath  said,  bending  for- 
ward eagerly  for  her  reply. 

"I  don't  know.  I  might  not — perhaps,"  said  Dar- 
rie shyly. 

It  was  decidedly  a  dangerous  moment,  and  perhaps 
it  was  quite  as  well  that  the  excellent  Mrs.  Jenners  came 
in  just  then.  Darrie  sank  back  among  her  cushions, 
and  John  rose  and  walked  over  to  the  window. 

Mrs.  Jenners  had  stirred  the  fire  and  bustled  out 
again  fully  five  minutes  before  John  turned  from  the 
window  and  came  back  to  the  little  figure  in  the  great 
chair  by  the  fire. 

"The  storm  is  over  now,  Miss  Darrie,"  he  said 
quietly.  "You  will  be  glad  to  get  home  as  soon  as  you 


62  HEARTHSIDE    SKETCHES 

can,  I  know.  I  will  send  Mrs.  Jenners  to  you,"  and 
with  that  he  walked  out. 

He  was  standing  by  the  road  wagon  with  his 
hand  upon  Black  Prince's  inane,  when  Darrie  came  out 
with  Mrs.  Jenners  in  attendance,  the  scarlet  wrap  still 
over  her  shoulders,  and  from  beneath  the  wide  brim  of 
her  hat,  showing  a  rather  pale  face  Without  a  word, 
John  lifted  her  into  the  wagon,  took  his  own  place  and 
drove  off.  And  not  one  syllable,  as  they  clattered 
smartly  along  between  the  dripping  hedgerows,  did  these 
two  say. 

The  gates  of  the  cottage  were  reached,  and  John 
pulled  Black  Prince  up,  and  getting  out  himself,  gently 
lifted  Darrie  down.  Then  she  held  out  to  him  a  hand 
that  trembled  just  a  little;  but  instead  of  taking  it,  he 
pointed  to  a  bunch  of  roses  in  the  bosom  of  her  dress. 
They  were  faded  now — drooping,  as  if  the  storm  had 
beaten  down  upon  them. 

"Will  you  give  me  those?"  he  asked  her. 

Without  a  word  she  held  them  out  to  him. 

John  took  them  and  her  hand  with  them,  and  for 
the  first  time  bent  and  kissed  it.  He  had  never  dared 
do  as  much  as  that  before.  Then  he  got  into  the  wagon 
again,  and  Black  Prince,  startled  by  a  sharper  cut  from 
the  wip  than  he  had  ever  received  before,  went  clatter- 
ing down  the  lane  back  to  Kenreath  ;  while  Darrie  with 
the  hand  he  had  kissed  held  softly  against  her  cheek, 
was  flying  up  the  soaked  gravel  walk  to  the  house. 


HEARTHSIDE    SKETCHES  63 

The  door  was  open,  and  she  ran  into  the  hall,  paus- 
ing there  for  an  instant.  She  wanted  to  get  away  and 
be  quiet  by  herself  somewhere,  but  she  must  see  Aunt 
Mary  and  explain  to  her  first,  and,  not  giving  herself 
time  to  think,  she  hurried  across  to  the  room  door  and 
pushed  it  open.  Inside,  she  stood  motionless  and  mute, 
the  color  dying  from  her  cheeks — a  fair  little  statue  of 
amazement  and  dismay. 

Aunt  Mary  was  there, but  she  did  not  make  her  heart 
beat  violently  and  guiltily  with  such  suffocating  force. 
No;  there,  looming  large  beside  her  aunt's  black  gown, 
was  her  father's  tall  figure,  with  its  handsome  lined 
face;  and  behind  him — oh,  a  thousand  times  worse 
than  all; — was  the  red,  common  face,  with  its  ugly  leer- 
ing smile,  of  Mr.  Joseph  Parkinson! 

-.r  ***** 

"I  call  the  whole  thing  abominable,  David — shame- 
ful !  I  knew  you  never  cared  for  that  poor  child — I 
knew  that  when  I  took  her  off  your  hands — but  I  did  not 
think  you  would  ever  etoop  to  sacrifice  her  in  such  a 
manner.  How  you  can  call  yourself  a  father  at  all,  I 
don't  know!"  Aunt  Mary  cried,  winding  up  with  ex- 
treme emphasis  and  indignation. 

Miss  Morrison  was  very  angry,  but  then  the  squire 
was  very  provoking,and  gentle  Aunt  Mary  was  doing  bat- 
tle for  her  darling  Darrie,  in  defence  of  whom  she  would 
have  faced  without  a  qualm  a  dozen  loud-voiced,  reckless 
squires  of  Morrison.  So,  although  she  trembled  a  lit- 


64  HEA.RTHSIDE    SKETCHES 

tie,  she  stood  her  ground  bravely  and  flashed  at  her 
graceless  brother  as  fierce  and  implacable  a  look  as  she 
could  send  from  her  kind  brown  eyes. 

But  the  squire,  although  taken  aback  at  the  timid 
lady's  defiance — was  still  not  one  whit  abashed.  Indeed, 
he  smiled  upon  her  in  a  bland  and  patronizing  way. 

"My  dear  sister,  if  only  you  would  be  kind  enough 
to  listen—" 

"I  don't  wish  to  listen!" 

"You  would  then  understand — " 

''That  for  your  own  selfish  ends  you  wish  to  sacrifice 
your  daughter !"  struck  in  his  sister,  utterly  declining 
to  let  the  squire  finish.  "I  understand  that  perfectly 
now." 

"What  do  you  mean  by  'sacrifice'?"  the  squire  said 
testily. 

"Trying  to  make  her  marry  that  man — that  vulgar, 
ill-bred,  pompous  creature,  who  is  unfit  to  be  in  her 
company.  There,  it  is  of  no  use  talking  to  me  about  it ! 
I  have  heard  quite  enough,  and  I  understand  perfectly 
that  you  wish  to  sell  your  daughter  to  the  highest  bid- 
der," Aunt  Mary  retorted  angrily. 

"Not  so,  not  so,  my  dear  sister,"  answered  the 
squire.  "You  think  I  wish  this  marriage  for  my  own 
sake?  But  my  chief  object  is  Darrie.  You  know  my 
position.  She  owes  too  much  to  you  already — a 
great  deal  too  much,"  repeated  the  squire  virtu- 
ously, "not  a  doubt  of  it.  Well,  what  then?  Surely 


HEARTHSIDE    SKETCHES  65 

it's  only  natural  that  I  should  wish  to  see  her  well  mar- 
ried. It  would  be  a  weight  off  my  mind,"  added  the 
squire,  heaving  a  sigh. 

"A  man -like  that!''  said  his  sister. 

"A  man  with  a  half  million,  Mary,  a  cool  half 
million." 

"And  old  enough  to  be  her  father,"  pursued  his 
sister,  with  gathering  wrath,  "and  more  vulgar  than  a 
plow  b'^y." 

"Well — y-e-s."  And  the  squire  flushed  and  winced 
under  her  steady  gaze.  "Of  course  I  don't  pretend  that 
Parkinson  is  in  all  ways  what  might  have  been  wished," 
he  said.  "He  is  not  a  Morrison,  of  course;  he  is  not 
exactly  an  Adonis;  and,  as  I  have  heard  you  remark, 
his  manners  are — well — are  rather  coarse  !  And,  after 
all,  gentlemen  are  rare  nowadays — very  rare!"  The 
squire  heaved  a  retrospective  sigh,  thinking  possibly  of 
the  days  when  gentlemen  were  not  so*  painfully  rare. 
A  pause  ensued.  During  the  past  week  the  squire  and 
his  sister  had  held  more  than  one  conversation  upon  the 
same  subject,  and  always  in  pretty  much  the  same 
terms.  Mr.  Parkinson  was  not  in  favor  at  the  cottage, 
although  he  came  there  every  day,  obstinately  prosecut- 
ing his  suit  of  the  squire's  daughter. 

His  coarse  voice  and  ways,  and  his  insulting  admir- 
ation had  not  aroused  one  whit  more  indignation  and 
repulsion  in  the  breast  of  gentle,  refined  Aunt  Mary  than 
in  that  of  poor,  little,  shamed,  wrathful,  helpless, Darrie. 


66  HEARTHSIDE    SKETCHES 

He  was  a  horrid  man — and  she  wouldn't,  couldn't, 
shouldn't  marry  him!  This  was  all  she  said,  trembling 
before  the  fierce  look  in  her  father's  eyes,  and  at  the 
harsh,  dictatorial  sound  of  his  voice. 

"Look  here,  Mary,"  the  squire  said  growlingly 
to  his  sister,  "what  ails  the  girl?  Most  girls  in  her 
position  wouldn't  make  such  an  everlasting  struggle 
about  taking  a  half  million,  you  know.  There  must  be 
some  reason  for  it." 

"She  hates  the  man,"  said  Aunt  Mary,  adding  con- 
clusively, "and  I  don't  wonder!" 

"She's  welcome  to  hate  him  to  her  heart's  content, 
so  long  as  she  marries  him,"  Darrie's  affectionate  pa- 
rent retorted.  "The  question  is,  has  she  picked  up  any 
love-rubbish  down  here?" 

"Certainly  not!"  said  his  sister  promptly,  in  bliss- 
ful unconsciousness  of  the  foot-bridge. 

"And  a  very  good  thing,  too,  for  marry  Joseph 
Parkinson  she  shall,  and  the  sooner  she  makes  up  her 
mind  to  it  the  better !  He  can't  spend  much  more  of  his 
time  fooling  about  here!" 

"Darrie  will  never  marry  that  man,  do  and  say 
what  you  will!"  cried  his  sister  indignantly. 

"She  will  do  it,  and  pretty  quickly  too,  or  I'll  know 
the  reason  why !"  said  the  squire  very  fiercely  indeed, 
and  growling  out  a  strong  word  or  two  with  great  em- 
phasis. 

And  Aunt  Mary,  much  shocked  and  offended,  swept 


HEARTHSIDE    SKETCHES  67 

out  of  the  room  without  vouchsafing  any  replj'.  She 
waited  in  the  hall  for  a  moment  or  two,  lingering  out- 
side Darrie's  door,  unwilling  yet  to  meet  her  child's 
eyes ;  but  Darrie's  ears  were  sharp,  and  they  heard 
the  soft  sweep  of  her  aunt's  silken  train.  She 
came  out  hastily,  raising  her  blue  eyes  eagerly  to  the 
gentle  face.  Very  pale  she  looked  and  very  pretty,  in 
her  white  gown,  and  with  her  lovely,  golden  hair  rip- 
pling over  her  shoulders.  She  clasped  her  two  cold 
hands  round  Aunt  Mary's  arm. 

"Well,  Aunt?" 

"My  darling!" — and  she  drew  the  forlorn  little  fig- 
ure to  her  heart,  fondly  caressing  the  golden  bead. 
"It  is  always  the  same,  Darrie.  Your  father  will  listen 
to  nothing  I  can  say.  You  must  not  mind  it,  dear;  it 
will  all  come  right,"  urged  Aunt  Mary  tenderly,  striv- 
ing to  believe  it  herself. 

"He  says  I  must  marry  Mr.  Parkinson?"  queried 
Darrie  quietly. 

"My  dearest,  you  must  not  mind  what  he  says," 
said  her  aunt  helplessly.  • 

"I  don't,"  drawing  herself  away  and  raising  her 
head  proudly. 

"Listen  to  me,  Auntie.  You  are  afraid  that  I  shall 
give  in.  You  need  not  be.  I  would  never  marry  him. 
I  hate,  detest,  and  abominate  him!"  cried  Darrie,  sud- 
denly losing  all  her  dignity  in  a  shower  of  angry  tears. 
Then  Darrie  raised  her  wet  face  and  began  to  laugh 
heartily. 


68  HEARTHSIDE    SKETCHES 

"What  geese  we  are,  Auntie,  don't  look  so  miserable, 
darling!  I  can't  very  well  be  married  against  my  will, 
can  I?  And  I  can't  and  won't  marry  that  man  Parkin- 
son. And  now  I  shall  go  out  before  that  horrible  man 
comes!"  And  with  that  Darrie'gave  Aunt  Mary  a  lov- 
ing embrace,  and  putting  on  her  hat  ran  out  into  the 
sunshine  of  the  garden. 

Perhaps  it  was  by  accident,  perhaps  because  she 
wanted  to  be  quite  out  of  her  unwelcome  suitor's  way, 
that  her  feet  strayed  in  the  direction  of  the  foot-bridge. 
They  had  not  done  so  since  the  day  of  the  thunder  storm, 
when  John  had  failed  to  keep  tryst.  She  had  not  seen 
him  since — poor  John  ! — not  once. 

Her  feet  were  almost  on  the  bridge  before  she  re- 
membered where  she  was;  and  she  started  and  blushed, 
and  looked  round  tremulously,  afraid  just  then  to  see 
the  handsome  face  and  eager  dark  eyes.  But  she  need 
not  have  feared;  no  one  was  in  sight  in  all  the  broad  ex- 
panse of  green  meadow.  She  was  glad  of  that,  so  glad 
in  fact,  that  she  sank  down  on  the  thick  grass  that  bor- 
dered the  stream  and  began  to  cry. 

How  long  she  lay  there,  with  her  flushed  face  bur- 
ied in  the  cool  green,  she  did  not  know;  but  after  her 
burst  of  tears  was  over  she  heard  a  step  beside  her, 
some  one  lifted  her  to  her  feet,  and  she  sprang  back  with 
a  wrathful  little  cry  of  repugnance.  It  was  not  John, 
as  she  had  fancied,  but  Joseph  Parkinson. 

Whatever  kind  of  a  look  it  was  she  flashed  upon  him 


HEARTHSIDE    SKETCHES  69 

from  indignant  blue  eyes,  it  had  no  effect  upon  him. 
He  leaned  his  head  back  and  chuckled  as  he  looked  at 
her. 

"Thought  I  should  find  you,  Miss  Darrie — told  the 
squire  I'd  do  it.  You've  led  me  a  fine  dance,  though." 

'•What  did  you  follow  me  for?"  Darrie  demanded, 
eyeing  him  disgustedly. 

"T  wanted  to  find  you,  of  course.  You  don't  think 
I  came  to  this  dead  alive  hole  to  talk  to  the  old  lady,  do 
you?" 

"I  wish  you  would  speak  of  aunt  respectfully,  if 
you  must  speak  at  all,"  she  retorted. 

'•Well  then,  we'll  call  her  dear  aunt — anything  to 
please  you,  I'm  sure.  You  looked  like  a — what  do  you 
call  it? — Water-nymph — down  there  among  the  grass 
— by  Jove,  you  did  !  Could  hardly  make  up  my  mind 
to  disturb  you." 

"And  how  dare  you  follow  me  about,  Mr.  Parkin- 
son?" 

"Dare!"  Parkinson  chuckled,  and  advanced  a  little 
nearer  to  the  small,  scornful  figure,  with  angry  blue 
eyes  and  erect  golden  head.  "Come  now,  Miss  Darrie, 
don't  you  think  we've  had  enough  of  airs  and  graces 
for  the  present?  What  good  does  it  do,  you  know? 
If  I  had  meant  to  take  your  'No'  I  shouldn't  have  come 
here  after  you.  But  I  don't  mean  to  take  it.  Now  don't 
you  think  you  may  as  well  say  'Yes'  without  any  more 
shilly-shallying?" 


70  HEARTHSIDE    SKETCHES 

His  burly  figure  was  close  at  her  shoulder, but  Darrie 
was  silent,  too  intensely  angry  to  utter  a  syllable  ;  the 
beating  of  her  heart  seemed  to  suffocate  her.  Mr.  Park- 
inson misconstrued  her  quietness  it  appeared.  He  bent 
his  head  closer  to  hers  : 

"Come  now,  Miss  Darrie,  you'll  have  to  say  it  in  the 
end,  you  know,  and  you  may  as  well  do  it  first  as  last. 
Or  don't  say  it  if  }Tou'd  rather  not;  give  me  a  kiss  in- 
stead, just  to  mean  it's  all  right, and  I'll  drive  you  over 
to  Greyburn  to-morrow  and  buy  you  the  best  diamond 
ring  to  be  bought  there  for  money — 1  will,  by  Jove!" 

Growing  bolder  as  she  still  stood  mute,  he  put  his 
arm  around  her  waist  and  would  have  kissed  her  in  an- 
other moment,  despite  her  scream  and  sudden  struggle, 
but  for  something  unexpected  which  occurred  just  then. 

There  was  a  rapid  rush  across  the  stream  which 
made  the  little  foot-bridge  rock;  Darrie  gave  a  louder 
scream  than  before,  and  Joseph  Parkinson  sprawled  help- 
lessly upon  the  ground. 

It  was  a  very  tragic  scene  indeed ;  Darrie,  as  white 
as  her  dress,  clung  hold  of  John  Kenreath's  arm  with 
both  hands,  rightly  judging  from  his  pale,  fierce  face 
and  clinched  fist  that  he  might  commit  another  assault  if 
he  saw  auy  reason.  And  yet  she  felt  inclined  to  laugh, 
for  the  prostrate  foe,  struggling  and  floundering  among 
the  bushes,  did  look  ridiculous. 

But  as  he  got  up  on  his  feet  he  looked  meeker  than 
might  have  been  expected.  He  glared  at  John  over 


HEARTHSIDE    SKETCHES  71 

Darrie's  golden  head  not  half  so  savagly  as  John  glared 
at  him. 

"Who  are  you?"  he  said  with  a  growl,  wincing  as 
he  rubbed  his  bumped  forehead.  "How  dare  you  knock 
a  gentleman  down,  sir?" 

"I  never  knocked  a  gentleman  down  yet,  but  you're 
about  the  worst  cad  I  ever  tried  my  hand  on!"  John 
said,  his  face  reddening.  "Dare!  How  dare  you  insult 
a  woman,  you  coward?" 

"It's  no  insult  for  a  man  to  kiss  his  promised  wife," 
the  man  said,  chuckling,  as  he  backed  away.  "I'd  ad- 
vise you  to  keep  your  fists  in  your  pocket,  you  bluster- 
ing young  fool,  unless  you  want  to  be  run  in  for  assault. 
All  right,  Miss  Darrie,  I  shall  tell  the  equire  you  said 
'yes'."  And  with  that  he  moved  off  among  the  trees; 
he  was  not  sorry  to  get  out  of  the  reach  of  that  brawny 
young  fellow  with  the  white  face  and  fierce  dark  eyes, 
to  whom  Darrie  was  still  clinging  in  desperate  fright. 
But  the  little  hands  dropped  as  Mr.  Parkinson  disap- 
peared, and  she  drew  back,  holding  the  hand  rail  of  the 
foot-bridge  and  trembling  violently;  but  her  face  was 
not  so  pale  as  poor  John's.  That  parting  Parthian  shaft 
had  literally  stricken  him  dumb,  and  he  could  only  look 
down  in  speechless  misery  at  the  little  trembling  white 
figure. 

"I'm  sure  you  hurt  him  dreadfully,"  said  Darrie, 
with  a  nervous  laugh. 

"I  wish  I  had  broken  his  neck!"  John    retorted,  vi- 


72  HEARTHSIDE    SKETCHES 

ciously.  "To  see  you  insulted  by  such  a  man  as  that!  I 
— but — "  breaking  off  and  drawing  a  deep  breath — "I 
was  forgetting.  I  ought  to  beg  your  pardon  for  my  in- 
terference." 

"Why?"  asked  Darrie  innocently. 

"I  did  not  know  he  had  the  right." 

"Oh !"  breathed  Darrie  softly,  looking  down  and 
plaiting  a  fold  of  her  white  skirt  industriously.  "You 
see,  he  is  very  rich,  and — and — " 

"And  your  father  means  to  sell  you  to  him,  I  sup- 
pose?" John  said  in  a  choked  voice. 

"Yes,"  came  the  faltered  out  answer — "that  is,  my 
father  says  I  must  marry  him.  You  see,  I  am  so  poor." 

"And  so  must  have  a  rich  husband,  even  though  he 
is  older  than  your  father !"  John  said  bitterly.  "But 
I  beg  your  pardon,  Miss  Morrison,  I  have  no  right  to 
speak  so.  Only — well,  I  would  rather  see  you  lying  at 
the  bottom  of  the  stream  there  dead,  and  myself  beside 
you,  that's  all." 

A  silence  ensued, a  silence  broken  only  by  the  rustle 
of  the  trees  and  the  purling  of  the  stream;  then  Darrie 
started  and  shivered  a  little,  moving  one  step  forward. 

"Good-bye,  Mr.  Kenreath,"  she  faltered,  looking 
shyly  up  into  his  dark  moody  face. 

"Good-bye!"  said  John  coldly. 

He  would  not  look  at  her  and  would  not  touch  the 
trembling  fingers  that  she  held  out  to  him.  She  was  so 
near  him  that  he  might  with  one  movement  have  drawn 


HEARTHSIDE    SKETCHES  73 

her  into  his  arms  and  held  her  to  his  heart.  But  he 
did  not.  He  had  nothing  more  to  do,  except  watch 
Squire  Morrison's  daughter  go, he  thought.  But,  being 
a  woman,  Darrie  did  not  go. 

"I  shall  often  think,  when  I  am  gone  away,  of  the 
stream,  and  the  foot-bridge,  and  the  forget-me-nots," 
she  faltered  wistfully.  "The  forget-me-nots  will  soon 
grow  again  now,  won't  they?  I  must  have  picked  them 
nearly  all." 

"Good-bye,"  again  faltered  Darrie  faintly.  She 
held  out  her  little  shaking  hand  to  him  for  the  second 
time,  and  now  John  couldn't  pretend  that  he  didn't  see 
it,  and  in  common  politeness  he  couldn't  refuse  to  touch 
it.  So  he  took  it,  and  it  lay  quivering  in  his  strong 
clasp. 

"Good-bye,  Miss  Morrison." 

"Good-bye,"  whispered  Darrie,  more  faintly  still, 
and  glanced  up,  half  wonderingly,  as  he  let  her  finger 

go- 

So  far  so  good.  The  couple  might  have  got  over 
this  highly  decorous  parting  with  all  desirable  dignity 
and  coolness,  but  for  that  unlucky  glance.  But  the  blue 
eyes  brimmed  up  as  they  met  the  dark  ones,  and  poor 
little  Darrie  burst  into  tears,  stretching  out  two  little 
shaking  hands  imploringly;  and  John,  forgetting  all 
about  the  Mr.  Parkinson,  and  caring  nothing  for  the 
squire,  caught  the  slender  figure  in  his  arms,  and  hid 
the  sweet  face  against  his  broad  breast. 


74  HEARTHSIDE    SKETCHES 

"There — there,  don't  cry,  my  darling — anything 
but  that!  We  had  better  be  dead  than  parted,  hadn't 
we?  It  doesn't  matter  what  anyone  says.  Never  mind 
the  squire  or  that  fellow  either.  He  shall  never  touch 
you  again.  He  shall  never  take  you  away  from  me  now. 
.I'll  break  his  blessed  neck  if  he  so  much  as  looks  at 
you!  Don't  sob  so,  sweetheart,  it  only  means  that  you 
and  I  are  never  going  to  say  good-bye  to  one  another, 
you  know,  that's  all." 

However,  John  said  a  good  deal  more,  and  Darrie 
let  her  sunny  head  rest  against  his  broad  breast  with 
no  great  display  of  reluctance,  and  managed  to  answer 
very  satisfactorily  without  saying  anything  at  all.  Per- 
haps it  was  an  hour,  perhaps  only  five  minutes  after, 
when  John  lifted  the  blushing  little  face  toward  his 
own,  and  looked  down  at  it. 

"My  darling,"  he  said,  lingering  fondly  over  every 
syllable — "my  darling  Darrie,  what  are  we  going  to  do 
now,  sweetheart?" 

"I  don't  know,"  murmured  Darrie  contentedly,  ruf- 
fling her  golden  head  against  the  shabby  coat.  "What?" 

"Ah,  that's  what  I  wish  I  knew !  What  shall  I  do, 
Darrie?  I  wish  I  knew  what  I  had  best  do,  for  your 
sake." 

"Perhaps  you  wish  that  we  had  said  good-bye,  af- 
ter all,"  she  suggested  demurely,  glancing  up  from  un- 
der her  long  lashes  shyly  into  her  lover's  dark,  adoring 
eyes,  "do  you?" 


HEARTHSIDE    SKETCHES  75 

John  laughed,  and  answered  her  satisfactorily,  if 
not  verbally,  but,  despite  his  intense  happiness,  he  was 
feeling  very  much  perplexed.  Beyond  the  blissful  pres- 
ent, there  loomed  up  the  threatening  figure  of  Squire 
Morrison.  Not  that  John  minded  for  himself  anything 
the  squire  might  do  or  leave  undone,  but  he  did  mind 
for  her. 

"lam  so  poor,  you  see,  dear,"  he  explained,  ten- 
derly drawing  a  curl  of  her  golden  hair  through  his  fin- 
gers, "that  even  if  there  were  no  man  with  a  half  million 
in  the  way — confound  him,  I  could  hardly  expect  your 
father  to  give  you  to  me.  Could  I?" 

"Oh,  no!"  Darrie  shook  her  head  decisively.  There 
was  no  doubt  at  all  about  that. 

"And  so  if  I  go  to  the  squire  and  tell  him,"  John 
was  beginning,  when  she  checked  him  by  a  little  scream. 

"Oh,  no — that  would  never  do — you  mustn't  do 
that!  He  would  just  swear  at  you  awfully,  and  take  me 
away  to-morrow  to  Morrison.  Oh  no,  John;  you 
mustn't  say  a  word  to  him  about  me — not  a  single 
word!" 

"Then  what  can  I  do, darling?"  John  asked,  watch- 
ing the  sweet,  earnest,  frightened  face.  "Shall  we  tell 
Aunt  Mary?"  But  no — Darrie  shook  her  head  at  that 
too. 

*'I — I  don't  think  that  would  be  best,  John  dear," 
she  said.  "I  think  something  else  would  be  better  per- 
haps." 


76  HEARTHSIDE    SKETCHES 

"But  what!"  John  queried  anxiously. 

"Well,"  Darrie  faltered,  blushing  rose  red  all  over 
her  pretty  face  ;  "you — you — might  run  away  with  me, 
you  know." 

"My  dearest!"  John  cried  in  eager  excitement, 
and  clasping  her  hands  tightly.  "Do  you  really  mean 
you  will  do  that,  Darrie?  It's  the  only  thing  for  us  !  I 
have  felt  that  all  this  time;  but  I  did  not  dare  ask  you 
to  do  it.  Oh,  sweetheart,  you  shall  never  repent  trust- 
ing me  so,  never!  And  now,  what  shall  we  do?" 

What  they  were  to  do  did  not  transpire,  audibly  at 
any  rate,  but  there  was  a  good  deal  of  whispering  by  the 
old  foot-bridge,  a  little  laughter,  and  a  large  amount  of 
nonsense — which  was  to  this  pair  the  finest  wisdom  in 
the  world  no  doubt ;  and  there  might  have  been  more 
but  for  Aunt  Mary's  voice,  calling  out,  to  know  where 
the  truant  was. 

Time  had  flown,  for  it  was  sundown  and  growing 
cool  under  the  tall  trees.  Darrie  sprang  out  of  her 
lover's  arms  and  turned  pale  as  her  aunt's  silk  train 
gleamed  through  the  shrubbery. 

"It  is  auntie!"  she  said  hurriedly.  "She  mustn't 
see  you.  Yes,  yes — I'll  remember  every  word,  and  I'll 
come — I  promise  I  will.  Good-bye,  John,  and  I'll  do 
everything  you  tell  me.  Oh !  here  she  is !  Do  make 
haste!" 

And  indeed  there  was  hardly  time  for  the  hasty  kiss 
with  which  they  parted,  for  John  had  hardly  disap- 


HEARTHSIDE    SKETCHES  77 

peared    in    the  shadow  of    a  convenient   hedge,  before 
Aunt  Mary  appeared  in  sight. 

"Oh,  there  you  are,  Darrie!"  she  cried  in  a  relieved 
voice.  "I  really  thought  I  should  not  find  you.  We 
were  anxious  about  you.  Where  have  you  been?" 

"Here,  dear  Aunt,"  said  Darrie  meekly.  "What 
do  you  want  me  for?" 

"Your  father  wants  to  see  you,"  said  her  aunt, 
kindly. 

"Oh?"  Darrie  stopped  and  gave  a  little  gasp. 
"Where  is  Mr.  Parkinson,  Auntie?" 

"He  has  gone.  Your  father  is  dreadfully  cross 
about  something,  Darrie." 

doubt  of  that,"  and  Darrie,  with  more  desper- 
ation than  courage,  ran  into  the  house,  across  the  hall, 
and  pushed  open  her  father's  door. 

Only  the  squire  was  in  the  room ;  and  very  fierce 
and  terrible  he  looked,  as  the  little  white  figure  with 
bright  eyes  and  flushed  cheeks  came  forward  and  stood 
beside  his  chair. 

"Do  you  want  me,  papa?"  she  said  meekly. 

'  Y3sl  do,  Miss!  What's  this  you've  been  up  to, eh?" 

"Up  to?"  It  was  really  no  wonder  she  flushed 
painfully.  "What  do  you  mean,  papa?"  she  faltered. 

"Mean?"  shouted  the  squire.  "How  dare  you  let 
some  scoundrel  of  a  ploughboy  knock  down  my  friend, 
Mr.  Joseph  Parkinson?  Do  you  know  he's  got  a  black 
eye,  Miss,  and  won't  be  able  to  show  for  a  week?" 


78  HEARTHSIDE    SKETCHES 

"How  dare  he  insult  me,  papa?"  cried  Darrie,  rais- 
ing her  head  proudly. 

Her  father  stared  and  laughed. 

"Insult,  indeed!  What  shall  we  hear  next,  I  won- 
der! Some  fine  notions  you've  picked  up,  young 
lady!  If  the  man  who's  to  be  your  husband  in  a 
month  isn't  to  kiss  you  if  he  chooses,  who  is,  I'd  like  to 
know?  Who's  the  young  scoundrel  that  knocked  him 
down,  ehr" 

"Mr.   Kenreath!" 

"And  who  is  Mr.  Kenreath?" 

"A  gentleman!"  Raid  Darrie  loftily. 

"Gentleman,  indeed!  Fine  gentleman  to  make  a 
man  look  as  though  he  had  been  in  a  prize-fight,  by 
Jove  !  But.  I  know  who  he  is.  I  asked  your  aunt,  and 
the  sooner  he  minds  his  own  business  the  better  for  him  ! 
Pretty  insolence,  upon  my  word,  to  go  knocking  down  a 
man  worth  half  a  million  and  blackening  his  eye.  What 
next?"  Darrie  was  stealing  away  in  the  direction  of  the 
door  when  he  suddenly  called  her  back. 

"Come  now,  where  are  you  off  too?  Didn't  I  say  I 
wanted  to  speak  to  you?" 

"I  thought  you  had  finished,   papa." 

"I  haven't  begun.  Come  back  here  and  listen  to 
what  I  say,  will  you?" 

The  squire  stretched  out  his  hand,  grasped  her  lit- 
tle wrist  in  his  grim  fingers,  and  looked  at  her  narrowly. 
But  the  blue  eyes  of  his  daughter  looked  steadily  and 


HEARTHSIDE    SKETCHES  79 

clearly  back  to  him.  She  guessed  what  he  was  going  to 
say,  and  knew  what  she  would  say  in  answer. 

"Look  here,  Darrie,"  said  he.  "When  I  say  a 
thing  I  mean  it.  You  know  that,  don't  you?" 

"Yes,  papa," — with  charming  deference. 

'•Very  well.  And  you  know  what  I  came  down  here 
for,  don't  you?' 

"Yes,  papa." 

"And  what  Mr.  Parkinson  came  for?" 

"Yes,  papa/' 

"Very  well,  then.  Now  listen  to  me.  I  don't  want 
any  more  nonsense  over  it,  and  he  don't  want  any  more 
nonsense  over  it.  Consequently,  you'll  be  married  in 
lees  than  a  month  !" 

"Very  well,  papa,"  said  Darrie  meekly;  so  meekly 
indeed  that  the  squire  stared  in  astonishment. 

"Oh,  you  have  made  up  your  mind  to  it,  have 
you?" 

"I — I  think  so,  papa." 

"And  a  very  good  thing  too.  About  the  most  sen- 
sible thing  you  ever  did  in  your  life!"  her  father  said 
approvingly.  You'll  have  all  you  wish  for,  and  what 
more  can  you  want?" 

"Nothing,"  Darrie  said  softly. 

"Just  so — of  course  not,"  assented  the  squire. 
"And  a  very  good  husband  into  the  bargain,  mind 
that!" 

"Oh,  yes,  papa." 


80  HEARTHSIDE    SKETCHES 

"H'm !  I'm  glad  you  think  so."  Despite  his  en- 
deavors to  carry  affairs  off  [coolly,  the  squire  was  much 
taken  aback  by  his  daughter's  entire  change  of  front, 
and  for  a  moment  he  looked  at  her  suspiciously.  "I'm 
glad  you  think  so, "  he  repeated.  "You've  more  sense 
than  your  Aunt  Mary,  and  know  which  side  your  bread 
is  buttered.  And  you'll  be  a  good  wife  to  him — mind 
that  too!" 

"Oh,  yes,  papa,  always!     I  promise  you  I  will." 

"And  you  won't  show  any  temper  and  tantrums 
when  you  see  him  again,  eh?." 

'•Oh,  no,  papa!" 

"Well,  there's  a  good  girl,"  said  her  mollified 
father,  releasing  her  wrist  and  patting  her  cheek.  "You 
see  how  well  we  get  on  the  moment  you  begin  to  be 
sensible.  And,  although  of  course  he  isn't  a  Morrison, 
still  you'll  never  be  sorry  for  changing  your  name, 
you'll  find.  And  you'll  be  happy  enough,  no  fear  of 
that!" 

"No,  papa,"  Darrie  assented  softly.  "I'm  not 
afraid  of  that." 

"Of  course  you're  not.  You're  a  sensible  girl,  and 
a  very  good  girl,  too.  There,  give  me  a  kiss,  Darrie, 
and  then  run  away.  I  want  to  get  off  to  bed.  Good 
night,  my  dear." 

*  *  *  *  #  # 

The  next  day  was  very  quiet  at  the  cottage.  Joseph 
Parkinson  did  not  appear  there ;  presumably  he  was  nurs- 


HEARTHSIDE    SKETCHES  81 

ing  his  injured  eye  in  seclusion,  and  Dame  had  such  a 
bad  headache  she  was  unable  to  come  down  stairs.  It 
was  not  much,  she  said,  in  answer  to  kind  Aunt  Mary's 
anxious  inquiries — it  \vould  soon  be  better.  No — she 
must  not  think  of  sending  for  a  doctor— certainly  not. 
She  would  be  quite  well  to-morrow.  And  with  that 
gentle  Aunt  Mary  was  fain  to  be  contented.  Indeed, 
Aunt  Mary  was  more  anxious  and  puzzled  than  ever  she 
had  been  in  her  gentle  life  before,  for  the  squire  had  not 
failed  to  recount  to  her  his  wilful  daughter's  submis- 
sion. 

"Wanted  a  little  managing,  my  dear  Mary,"  the 
squire  said  patronizingly — "that  is  all !  All  women  are 
alike  in  that  way.  I  knew  the  wilful  chit  would  give 
in  pretty  quickly  when  she  found  that  I  wouldn't  stand 
any  nonsense.  Miss  Darrie  will  give  me  no  more  trouble, 
you'll  find.  She  shall  be  Mrs.  Joseph  Parkinson  before 
the  month's  out." 

But  the  squire  proved  wrong. 

The  next  day  was  not  so  tranquil  at  the  cottage — 
quite  the  reverse,  in  point  of  fact. 

Darrie  did  not  come  down  to  breakfast;  and  when 
Aunt  Mary  went  up  stairs  to  investigate  the  reason 
thereof,  she  found  the  pretty  maiden  bower  of  pink  and 
white  empty,  and  only  the  orthodox  note  pinned  upon 
the  pillow  where  her  pretty  golden  head  had  lain. 

Her  aunt  had  no  need  to  read  the  few  faltering  lines 
— which  danced  and  swam  before  her  startled  eyes,  and 


82  HEARTHSIDE    SKETCHES 

she  dared  not  be  bearer  of  Darrie's  penitent  missive  her- 
self, but  entrusted  it  to  Rogers,  and  it  was  upon  being 
made  acquainted  with  its  contents  that  the  squire  ut- 
tered such  dreadful  imprecations  and  flung  his  boot  at 
the  head  of  that  faithful  servitor. 

"Oh,  dear — how  dreadful!  I  never  was  so  shocked 
in  my  life!"  Aunt  Mary  sobbed. 

"I'll  horsewhip  that  scoundrel  within  an  inch  of 
his  life,  and  put  that  young  hussy  in  a  straight  jacket!" 
shouted  the  squire. 

"What  for?"  cried  Aunt  Mary,  wheeling  round 
sharply  upon  her  wrathful  brother.  "You  have  only 
yourself  to  blame  for  it.  How  dared  you  attempt  to 
make  that  poor  child  marry  that  abominable  Parkinson? 
John  Kenreath  is  at  least  a  gentleman.  And  I  would 
have  done  it  myself!"  cried  the  indignant  lady,  forget- 
ting she  was  very  angry  with  both  delinquents.  "And, 
if  you  are  going  to  try  to  bring  that  poor  child  back,  be 
pleased  to  understand,  sir,  you'll  do  it  with  no  sort  of 
assistance  from  me!"  and  with  that  the  good  lady  swept 
out  of  the  room,  very  pale  and  trembling  with  anger,  to 
burst  into  sobs  as  soon  as  the  door  was  closed,  and  her 
dear  child's  letter  pressed  to  her  quivering  lips. 

Half  an  hour  later  the  squire,  breathing  vows  of 
vengeance,  took  his  seat  in  the  carriage  at  the  Agates  of 
the  cottage,  and  red  with  fury  and  groaning,  and  curs- 
ing in  a  breath,  was  jolting  over  the  stony  roads  in  pur- 
suit of  his  runaway  daughter. 


HEARTHSIDE    SKETCHES  83 

Now  had  the  squire  been  a  little  wiser — he  might 
have  saved  himself  that  uncomfortable  journey  over  the 
jolting  road  to  Greyburn. 

He  was  too  late  to  do  anything  but  exasperate  him- 
self and  vent  his  wrath  upon  the  coachman — both  of 
which  he  did  plentifully. 

Just  about  the  time  the  squire  started  on  his  hasty 
journey,  at  a  certain  church  in  a  quiet  street  in  Grey- 
burn,  a  young  couple  took  their  stand  before  the  altar 
rails — a  golden  haired  slip  of  a  girl,  who  trembled  a  great 
deal,  and  a  dark-eyed  tall  young  fellow,  who  trembled 
not  at  all. 

It  was  all  over  in  a  few  minutes — and  the  young 
husband  and  wife  walked  out  into  the  sunshine  again. 

John  Kenreath  and  Darrie  had  run  away  in  the  least 
romantic  fashion  in  the  world.  There  had  been  no  rope 
ladders,  no  jumping  out  of  windows  at  midnight,  in 
this  particular  elopement. 

John  had  arranged  all  on  the  previous  day,  and 
Darrie  had  stolen  down  stairs  just  before  the  servants 
were  up,  joining  her  lover  a  little  way  down  the  lane, 
and  they  had  driven  quietly  away  behind  the  flying 
heels  of  Black  Prince.  And  now  it  was  all  over,  and 
the  squire  might  just  as  well  have  stopped  at  home. 

The  young  pair  stood  very  quietly  side  by  side  in 
the  sunny  street  fora  moment,  hardly  realizing  it  all  as 
yet.  It  was  a  very  tremulous  face  Darrie  raissd  to 
meet  John's,  clinging  tightly  to  his  arm  as  she  spoke. 


84  HEARTHSIDE   SKETCHES 

"Are  we  quite  safe,  John?  Are  you  sure?"  she 
whispered  eagerly. 

"Safe?  Of  course  we  are.  Why — do  you  forget 
this  already?"  He  touched  the  band  of  gold  on  the 
little  white  hand.  "Doesn't  that  say  you  belong  to 
me,  sweetheart." 

"I  belonged  to  you  without  that,"  she  said  simply. 
"But  I  mean,  John  dear,if  papa  came, you  know." 

"He  can't  take  you  from  me,  darling.  You're  mine 
now."  John  said  quietly. 

"You  are  sure?"  Darrie  queried  wistfulty. — "Quite 
sure." 

They  were  silent  again  ;  both  hearts  were  beating 
in  quick  time,  and  words  did  not  come  easily. 

John  drew  the  little  hand  within  his  arm  closer. 
"Let  us  go  now,  dearest,"  he  said  gently. 

"Where  are  we  going  now,  John?" 

"Back  to  the  hotel,  dear.  We  will  drive  home  to 
Kenreath  then  if  you  wish,  dear." 

"I  hope  papa  won't  get  here  before  we  start,  said 
Darrie,"  glancing  nervously  about. 

John  laughed.  "No  fear  of  that,  darling.  He  may 
not  know  it  yet,  and  if  he  does  he  will  know  it  is  too 
late  to  stop  us.  Darrie,  I  wonder  if.  in  the  future,  you 
will  ever  be  sorry  for  this?" 

"Sorry?"  Darrie  echoed,  with  wide-open  eyes. 
"What  for?" 

"For  running  away  with  me." 


HEARTHSIDE    SKETCHES  85 

"Why,  it  was  I  who  asked  you!"  she  cried  inno- 
cently. "You  know  I  did!" 

"Yes,  yes ;  but  it  was  my  fault.  You  have  married 
a  very  poor  man,  my  dear?" 

"I  ought  to  know  it,"  Darrie  responded,  with  a 
quaint  little  air  of  resignation.  "You  have  told  me  often 
enough  that  you  are  poor." 

"And  you  are  not  frightened  at  the  prospect  of 
living  at  poor  old  Kenreath,  are  you?" 

"Of  course  I'm  not!  Oh,  John — "  and,  blissfully 
regardless  of  passers-by,  Darrie  clasped  both  hands 
around  her  husband's  arm,  stopping  to  look  up  in  his 
face — "don't  you  know  that  I  was  afraid  of  nothing  in 
the  world  but  their  taking  me  away  from  you?" 

They  walked  on  slowly  and  gravely,  too  strange  in 
their  new  position  to  talk  in  a  commonplace  fashion 
yet. 

They  were  turning  into  the  main  street  of  Grey- 
burn,  when  an  ••gy  carriage  came  dashing  along,  the 
horseScovered  with  flecks  of  foam.  Darrie  recognized  it 
by  a  startled  scream.  The  maddened  beasts,  utterly 
beyond  the  frightened  coachman's  control,  swerved 
aside,  the  carriage  gave  a  lunge  sideways  and  threw  the 
limp  form  of  the  luckless  squire  within  a  dozen  paces  of 
his  daughter's  feet. 

****** 

"Does  he  seem  any  better,  dear?"  Darrie  asked 
wistfully  of  her  husband. 


86  HEARTHSIDE    SKETCHES 

"Much  the  same,  I  think,  darling.  But  he's  get- 
ting on  all  right." 

The  place  was  the  wide  ball  at  Kenreath.  The 
speakers,  the  young  roaster  and  mistress  of  that  abode, 
and  the  subject  of  their  conversation  was  Squire  Morri- 
son. Darrie  looked  a  little  anxious,  and  John  looked  a 
good  deal  amused.  He  had  just  come  down  stairs,  and 
things  in  the  vicinity  of  the  testy  squire  were  lively 
enough  to  be  laughable. 

It  was  two  weeks  since  the  runaway  wedding,  and 
ever  since  then  the  squire  had  lain,  bruised  and  sorely 
shaken,  in  the  big  front  room  at  Kenreath.  So  short- 
tempered  and  restless  a  patient  surely  was  never  seen, 
or  heard,  for  the  squire,  when  awake,  was  audible  from 
garret  to  cellar. 

The  squire  had  not  the  least  notion  of  where  he 
was.  Had  he  known  the  truth,  he  might  possibly  have 
killed  himself  in  the  endeavor  to  express  his  feelings 
properly.  He  had  been  brought  to  Kenreath  a  couple 
of  hours  after  the  accident,  and  still  insensible. 

Mrs.  Jenners  was  the  best  of  nurses,  and  into  her 
hands  he  had  been  confided ;  for  penitent  Darrie  began 
to  cry  at  the  mere  mention  of  leaving  him  in  the  hands 
of  strangers.  So  the  squire  lay  upstairs,  utterly  uncon- 
scious that  outside  his  door  Darrie  would  stand,  cling- 
ing to  her  husband's  hand,  and  listen  gladly,  and  yet 
half  afraid,  to  the  sound  of  his  loud  rasping  voice. 

Gentle  Aunt  Mary  had  come  to   Darrie   as   soon   as 


HEARTHSIDE    SKETCHES  87 

the  news  reached  her,  and  she  had  kissed  and  forgiven 
her  child.  And  she  did  not  pity  her  hapless  brother  so 
much  as  she  might  have  done,  and  utterly  refused  to 
see  him  until  he  should  know  the  state  of  the  case. 
What  he  would  probably  say  and  do  when  he  did  know 
made  Aunt  Mary  tremble. 

But  as  the  second  week  drew  to  a  close  the  squire 
grew  better,  and  now  John  had  just  announced  that  "he 
was  getting  on  all  right." 

"You're  quite  sure,  dear?"  Darrie  asked. 
"Quite    sure,  darling,"  John  returned  cheerfully, 
looking  down  upon  the  dainty  little  figure  very  proudly 
and  fondly. 

"It's  all  my  fault,  you  see,  dear,"  Darrie  said 
heaving  a  little  sigh.  "But  for  me  he'd  never  have 
done  it,  poor  dear." 

"It  wouldn't  have  happened  if  he  had  kept  bis  hair 
on,"  said  John  irreverently.  "Why,  darling,  you're 
not  sorry  already  that  you  belong  to  me,  are  you?" 

"Oh,  John  dear,  how  can  you  think  so'  I  was  only 
afraid  he'd  die,  you  know." 

"Die!"  John  laughed.  "Not  he !  If  you  had  seen 
him  fling  his  medicine  at  the  doctor  just  now,  as  I  did, 
you  wouldn't  think  there  was  much  chance  of  his 
dying." 

"Have  you  seen  him?" 

"Oh,  yes!  We  had  quite  a  conversation. 

"Oh,"  cried  Darrie;   "what  did  he  say?" 


88  HEARTHSIDE    SKETCHES 

"Nothing — what  should  he?  He  doesn't  know  me 
from  Adam.  He  has  been  asking  me  all  sorts  of  ques- 
tions, and  I  don't  think  I  ever  told  quite  so  many  fibs 
in  my  life.  I  don't  think  he  entertains  a  very  bad 
opinion  of  me,"  said  John,  his  eyes  twinkling.  "He 
expressed  himself  much  indebted  for  my  hospitality. 
I'm  going  up  to  have  another  chat  with  him  presently. 
He  asked  me.  Don't  look  so  doleful,  darling.  He'll 
give  us  his  blessing  yet." 

And  John  proved  right,  for,  in  his  headstrong,  im- 
pulsive way,  the  hot  tempered  squire  took  a  great  liking 
to  his  handsome,  dark-eyed  young  host.  No  one  could 
lift  and  turn  him  as  John's  strong  arms  did,  and  nobody 
cared  so  little  when  he  lost  his  temper.  He  got  quite 
confidential,  and  one  day  started  on  the  very  subject 
John  wanted  him  to  talk  about. 

"A  confoundedly  stiff  bout  I've  had  of  it,"  said  the 
squire,  "and  all  for  that  little  chit  of  a  girl!" 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  sir?"  said  John  politely. 

"My  daughter,  sir,"  said  the  squire.  "The  little 
disobedient,  runaway  hussy!  Eloped  under  my  nose,  sir 
— ran  off  with  some  confounded  young  clodhopper  of  a 
fellow.  And  she  the  last  of  the  Morrisons  too!  I  sup- 
pose you've  heard  about  it,  and  know  it  was  trying  to 
<satch  them  I  came  to  grief,  don't  you?" 

Oh,  yes !  John  had  heard  about  it.  And  he  sug- 
gested, with  due  modesty,  that  John  Kenreath  was  not 
exactly  a  clodhopper. 


HEARTHSIDE    SKETCHES  89 

'•Don't  tell  me,  sir,"  said  the  squire,  frowning. 
"Poor  as  Job,  isn't  he?" 

"Poor  enough,"  John  admitted. 

"Of  course  he  is,  the  scamp.  And  he  ran  away 
with  my  daughter.  If  ever  I  meet  that  young  scoundrel, 
sir,  I'll  knock  him  down!" 

"Just  so,  sir — I  would,"  said  John. 

"I  will,"  declared  the  squire. 

"If  you  can,  I  suppose,  sir,"  John  suggested  coolly. 

"Can?  We'll  see  about  that.  And  I'll  box  my 
daughter's  ears,  I  promise  you." 

"Wasn't  there  another  side  to  the  question,  sir?" 
John  said  quietly.  "Your  daughter  didn't  run  off  with 
her  lover  for  nothing,  did  she?  They  did  about  the  only 
thing  they  could  do,  in  my  opinion.  And  after  all,  sir, 
you  can't  be  sorry  your  daughter  is  happy  with  the  man 
she  chose  rather  than  miserable  with  the  man  you  chose 
for  her." 

"Parkinson  was  a  queer  customer  for  a  girl,  I  ad- 
mit. Poor  little  Darrie !  Perhaps  I  was  rather  too 
rough  with  her.  Only  a  little  blue-eyed  slip  of  a  girl 
after  all.  As  pretty  a  girl  as  one  would  wish  to  see. 
Never  saw  her,  I  suppose,  did  you?  ' 

Yes,  John  had  seen  her. 

"Oh,  what  did  you  think  of  her?  Deucedly  pretty 
girl,  isn't  she?"  said  the  squire,  almost  gently. 

"Very.  You'd  better  forgive  her,  sir,"  said  John, 
coming  a  little  nearer,  and  looking  down  at  the  hand- 


90  HEARTHSIDE    SKETCHES 

some  lined  face.  "I  know — that  is,  I  daresay  she  is 
miserable  over  it." 

"Serve  her  right!"  said  the  squire.  "So  you 
thought  her  pretty,  did  you?  You  and  she  wouldn't 
have  made  a  bad  pair,"  looking  up  approvingly  at  the 
young  roan's  broad  shoulders  and  handsome  face.  "You 
remind  me  of  what  I  was  once.  Now,  if  it  had  been  you 
that  she  had  taken  a  fancy  to,  I  won't  say  I  wouldn't 
have  forgiven  her." 

"Although  I  had  run  away  with  her,  sir?" 

"Well,  sir,  let  me  tell  you,  a  man  isn't  worth  much 
who  won't,  in  some  instances,  run  away  with  his  sweet- 
heart," said  the  squire,  veering  round  with  startling 
abruptness.  "By  Jove,  in  my  young  days,  I  should  have 
liked  to  see  the  father  that  would  have  stood  in  my  way ! ' ' 

"Then  you'd  really  forgive  her,  sir,  if  that  were  the 
state  of  the  case,  would  you?"  said  John. 

"Yes,  I  would,  sir,"  said  the  squire  decisively,  and 
closed  his  eyes  as  if  for  a  nap. 

John  opened  the  door  and  slipped  out  quietly.  Out- 
side Darrie  was  standing.  John  put  his  arm  around 
her  and  drew  her  to  the  door.  "Come  in  here,  darling  ! " 

"Oh,  no!"  She  shrank  back.  "Not  yet,  John 
dear,  please.  I  don't  know  what  he  would  say  to  me." 

"Ask  him  if  he  really  means  he  will  forgive  you," 
John  said,  and  pushing  open  the  door,  he  drew  her  in. 

The  squire  lay  with  his  eyes  closed,  and  the  lines 
and  wrinkles  showing  very  plainly  upon  his  worn  face. 


HEARTHSIDE    SKETCHES  91 

"Oh,  John,  how  dreadfully  he  looks!"  Darrie 
whispered. 

"Yes,  of  course.  He's  been  too  ill  to  look  very 
flourishing,  you  know.  Don't  cry.  You'll  make  him 
think  you're  sorry  for  what  you  have  done." 

Darrie  would  doubtless  have  repudiated  thischarge, 
but  just  then  the  squire  opened  his  eyes.  Her  face  was 
not  far  from  his  own  and  he  gazed  as  if  petrified. 
John  quietly  put  his  arm  around  his  wife's  waist,  and 
drew  her  to  his  side. 

"What's  this?"  gasped  the  squire.     "Darrie?" 

"Yes,  papa,"  eaid  Darrie  meekly. 

"And  who's  that?  Who  may  you  be  by  this  time, 
sir?"  cried  he  frowning  fiercely. 

"John  Kenreath,  sir,"  answered  John  promptly. 
"You  said  you  would  forgive  us,  }TOU  know." 

"And  you  will,  won't  you,  father  dear?"  Darrie  be- 
sought eagerly.  "I  couldn't  help  it,  I — I  loved  him  so 
much,  you  see." 

"Well,  I'll  be — blessed!"  Paid  the  squire. 

Somewhere  in  his  rough  breast  the  squire  had  a 
heart,  and  it  was  softened  now  as  his  daughter's  arms 
were  clasped  round  his  neck,  while  she  rained  down 
tears  and  kisses  upon  his  pale  face. 

So  he  kissed  her  too,  and,  as  she  drew  back  to  her 
husband's  side,  he  did  not  survey  them  so  implacably 
after  all. 

"Aren't  you  ashamed  of  yourself,  young  man  !"  he  de- 
manded. 


92  HEARTHSIDE    SKETCHES 

'  'Not  I,  sir.  'A  man  isn't  worth  much  who  won't  in 
some  instances  run  off  with  his  sweetheart,'  you  know. 
All  I  can  say  is  that  I'm  uncommonly  glad  I  ran  off 
with  mine." 

''And  you,  young  lady?"  said  the  squire,  his  eyes 
twinkling. 

"Not  a  bit  ashamed,  papa,"  said  Darrie  stoutly, 
laying  her  golden  head  softly  against  her  husband's 
sleeve.  "I'd  do  it  again  to-morrow  if  John  asked  me.r' 

"And  expect  me  to  forgive  you.  eh?  Just  as  you 
do  now?" 

"But  you  have  forgiven  us,  you  know,  father  dear," 
said  Darrie  smilingly. 


AUTUMN. 

There's  a  beautiful  spirit  breathing  now 

Its  mellow  richness  on  the  clustered  leaves, 

As  Autumn  with  her  sparsely  silvered  brow 
Gathers  the  rich  profusion  of  her  sheaves. 

Waves  of  bright  color  flood  the  earth  around, 
Pouring  new  glory  on  the  autumn  fields. 

The  waning  year's  full  fruitage  strews  the  ground. 

And  "Old  Jack  Frost,"  his  chilling  scepter  wields. 

They  who  with  grateful  hearts  go  forth  to  look 

On  duties  well  performed,  and  days  well  spent, 

Shall  find  and  read,  as  in  an  open  book, 

The  language  of  a  new  and  sweet  content. 


HEARTHSIDE    SKETCHES  93 


MY  BOY. 

Don't  send  my  boy  where  your  girl  can't  go, 

For  boy  or  girl, sin  is  sin  you  know, 

And  my  baby-boy's  hands  are  as  soft  and  white, 

And  his  soul  is  as  pure  as  your  girl's  to-night. 

Don't  open  the  way  to  haunts  of  sin, 

Gilded  without,  but  most  foul  within, 

Like  towering  monuments  of  shame, 

Reproaching  their  owner's  lust  for  gain. 

Don't  teach  him  that  men  are  licensed  free, 

To  reject  their  claim  to  chivalry. 

Teach  him  to  be  manly,  gentle,  kind, 

With  a  heart  of  gold, 

And  a  courage  bold, 

That  is  born  of  a  clean  and  pure  mind. 


LITTLE  BL  UE  EYES. 

Litte  maid  with  golden  hair, 

Eyes  so  blue  and  face  so  fair, ' 

What  will  all  thy  future  bring? 

What  of  joy,  and  grief,  and  pain. 

May  life's  cares  rest  light  on  thee, 

May  God's  love  encompass  thee, 

May  He  keep  thee  pure  as  now, 

Innocent  thy  heart  and  brow. 

Bless  thee,  bless  thee  little  one, 
The  joy,  the  light  within  my  home. 


94  HEARTHSIDE   SKETCHES 


CHILDHOOD'S  HOME. 

'Tis  a  small  brown  cottage  neatly  trellis 'd 
Stands  out  in  my  memory  sweetly  clear, 
With  a  wealth  of  vine  and  bloom  embellish'd, 
And  its  lattic'd  windows  in  front  and  rear. 

As  seen  in  fancy  the  quaint  old  roof-tree, 
Still  ring-s  with  the  shouts  of  our  merry  band, 
Our  hearts  attuned  to  its  rustic  beauty, 
Our  lives  touched  to  glory  by  nature's  wand. 


MAMA'S  MAN. 

Little  man  with  willing  feet, 

Truthful  eyes  and  red  lips  sweet, 

Eager,  helpful,  wee,  brown  hands, 
Cheerfully  meeting  all  demands. 

Waiting,  wishing,  time  so  slow, 

Would  make  haste,  and  faster  go; 

So  anxious  is  he  to  grow — 

Big  like  papa  dear,  you  know. 

I  will  work,  mama,  for  you, 

Earn  such  lots  of  money,  too, 

I  will  help  you  all  I  can, 

I'll  be  always  mama's  man. 

Heaven  bless  thee,mother's  man, 
Mould  thy  life  on  Christlike  plan, 

Pure  and  steadfast  as  you  go, 
God's  own  image  here  below. 


95 


THE  NATION'S  DEAD. 

The  Nation's  Dead.    On  every  hand  the  sacred  mounds  arise 

Silently  speaking  to  passers-by  of  leal  hearts'  sacrifice ; 
We  do  them  honor  each  May-day  with  flowers  and  music 

sweet, 

And  quiet  churchyard  walks  resound  with   the  tread  of 
martial  feet. 

Our  country  called  and  loyal  sons  responded  to  her  need, 
Men  staunch  and  true,  valiant  ones,  able  and  willing  to 

lead. 
Onward  to  death  marched  our  "Boys  in  Blue"  amid  shot  and 

shell. 
Knightly  in  deed  and  true  in  heart,  facing  the  foe  they  fell. 

Many  a  well-loved  son  went  forth,  only  a  boy  in  years, 
O  mother-hearts  that  bade  God-speed  amid  thy  falling 

tears, 
And  daily  watched  with  anxious  thought  for  news  from  far 

away, 

Pray  ing  and  waiting,  a  woman's  part,  this  silent  struggle 
alway. 

Some  lie  asleep  in  unknown  graves,  in  a  fair  Southern  land, 
But  angel  forms  keep  watch  and  ward  o'er  every  soldier 

band; 
And  "God's  Recording  Angel"  keeps  the  record  pure  and 

bright, 

How  fell  the  brave  in  that  dread   time  of  battle  for  the 
right. 


96  HEARTHSIDE    SKETCHES 

Honor  our  "Boys  in  Blue,"  and  remember  the  "Boys  in 
Gray," 

Who  just  as  freely  gave  their  lives  in  every  sad  affray; 
Forget  their  loyalty  to  those  who  threatened  freedom's  laws, 

The  soldier  paid  the  ransom  for  the  leaders  of  the  cause. 

A  grateful  country  claims  them  now — the  "Gray"  hath  don- 
ned the  "Blue," 
The  call,  "To  Arms!"  won  quick  response  from  Southern 

hearts  and  true, 

America  need  fear  no  foe,  while  we  united  stand — 
No  North, no  South,  no  East,  no  West,— One  God,  one 
Flag,  one  Land. 

Soon  may  the  white-winged  "Dove   of    Peace"  rest  upon 

folded  wing, 
And  from  the  ashes  of  the  Past,  new  light  and    impulse 

spring, 

Until/the  "Dark  Phantom  of  War"  in  every  land  shall  cease, 
And  man's  emancipation  come  through  Earth's  united 
Peace. 


INNISFALLEN. 

Bright  gleams  beneath  the  setting  sun 
A  burnished  sheet  of  molten  gold, 

As  Lake  Killarney  rippling  on 

Its  magic  beauties  doth  unfold. 

Above  Killarney's  silent  bed, 

Fair  Innisfallen  rears  her  crest; 

While  o'er  all,  Fiman's  Abbey  dread, 
Bares  to  the  blast  its  rugged  breast. 


HEARTHSIDE    SKETCHES  97 

Standing  with  grim  undaunted  face, 

Its  crumbling  ruins  guarding  well 
The  mystic  lore  of  ancient  race — 

Here  old  historic  legends  dwell. 

Fast  sentineled  by  moss-grown  rock, 
Withstanding  nature's  mighty  sway, 

Bearing  her  changing  mood  and  shock, 
As  none  but  grand  old  ruins  may. 

Fair  Innisf alien,  sacred  Isle, 

St.  Fiman's  Abbey,  gray  and  hoary; 

Thy  stately  oaks  stand  guard  the  while 
The  sun-god  bows  his  head  before  thee. 


NOTE. 

Innisfallen  is  the  most  historic  and  beautiful  of  the  Kil- 
larney  Islands.  At  St.  Fiman's  Abbey,  founded  more  than 
three  hundred  years  ago,  were  compiled  the  famous  "An- 
nals of  Innisfallen,"  begun  in  the  eleventh  century  and 
chronicling  the  world's  history  from  the  beginning,  and  that 
of  Ireland  from  430  A.  D.,  down  to  the  thirteenth  century. 

To  the  lover  of  the  beautiful,  it  offers  an  exquisite  com- 
bination of  pebbly  beach,  grassy  slope,  and  shady  groves  of 
majestic  oaks,  through  which  the  sunlight  filters  upon  the 
velvet  sward,  while  the  smooth  waters  of  the  lake  in  which 
it  seems  to  float,  mirror  and  multiply  its  charms. 


98  HEARTHSIDE    SKETCHES 


HOW  LONG. 

My  mother,  how  long  must  the  silence  keep 
Your  pure  soul  from  mine  in  the  last  long  sleep? 
The  way  is  so  long,  and  the  journey,  dear, 
Hath  taken  full  many  a  weary  year. 
Yet,  perchance  the  meeting  may  sweeter  be, 
For  the  long,  long  silence  'twixt  thee  and  me. 

I  dream  thou  art  near  me.    My  glad  eyes  trace 
The  lineaments  fair  of  thy  well  lov'd  face ; 
Thou  dost  clasp  me  close  in  my  dreams  of  thee, 
How  I  long  for  the  arms  that  enfolded  me. 
For  the  tender  touch  of  lips  that  smile  above, 
For  thy  sweet  whispered  words  of  mother-love. 


PRAYER. 

Prayer,  the  sweet  unspoken  longings  of  the  soul, 
Beyond  all  mortal  ken  to  fathom  or  control. 
Prayer,  the  awful  cry  of  anguish  and  despair, 
From  sin-soiled  lips  so  long  unused  to  prayer; 
But  ever  heard  and  registered  above, 
By  Him  whose  every  attribute  is  love. 
Prayer,  the  soft  lisp  of  innocence  at  night, 
From  pure  child  lips  and  souls  so  white- 
God  keep  them  safe  from  sin  and  stain, 
Keep  each  and  all  who  name  thy  name. 


HEARTHSIDE    SKETCHES  99 


OLD  MEMORIES. 

Three  pairs  of  blue  eyes,  brighter  I  ween, 
Than  cloudless  blue  of  summer  skies; 
Soft,  sunny  hair  of  a  golden  sheen, 
Sweet  faces  so  charming  and  wise. 

Bird-like  voices  in  silvery  notes, 
Caroling  happy  childish  glee, 
Sweetly  pealing  from  baby  throats, 
Recalling  life's  spring-time  to  me. 

I,  silent,  listen,  and  softly  sigh, 
As  recollections,  ever  dear, 
Now  pass  in  succession  swiftly  by, 
And  old  memories  bring  a  tear. 


SUNRISE. 

Morn  on  the  mountain  like  a  summer  bird. 

Lifts  her  bright  wing  toward  the  rising  sun. 
Still  life  awakes,  the  noise  of  day  is  heard, 

Time  chronicles  another  day  begun. 
'Round  lofty  pinnacles  with  shifting  glance, 

To  share  the  brunt  and  battle  of  the  day, 
The  "Sun  God,"  now  marshalls  his  trusty  lance, 

Massing  with  martial  tread  their  bright  array, 
They  gather  midway  round  the  rugged  height, 

Like  battle  hosts  swift  gathered  through  the  night. 


100  HEARTHSIDE    SKETCHES 


MY  KING. 

God  created  me  a  woman, 

With  a  nature  just  as  true 
As  the  blue  eternal  ocean — 

As  the  sky  that  is  over  you. 
Love  came— and  it  seemed  too  mighty 

For  my  troubled  heart  to  hold; 
It  seemed  in  its  sacred  glory, 

Like  a  glimpse  through  the  Gate  of  Gold. 
Like  life  in  the  perennial  Eden , 

Created,  formed  anew— 
This  dream  of  flawless  manhood 

That  is  realized  in  you. 
And  you  are  mine  until  your  Maker  calls  you — 

Your  soul  and  your  body,  Sweet! 
Your  breath  and  the  whole  of  your  being, 

From  your  kingly  head  to  your  feet — 
Your  eyes  and  the  light  that  is  in  them — 

Your  lips  with  their  maddening  wine — 
Your  arms  with  their  passionate  clasp,  my  king- 

Your  body  and  soul  are  mine. 
No  power,  whatsoever, 

No  will  but  God's  alone, 
Can  take  you  from  my  keeping: 

You  are  His  and  mine  alone. 
I  know  not  where,  if  ever — 

I  know  not  when  or  how 
Death's  hands  may  try  the  fetters 

That  bind  us  here  and  now; 


HEARTHSIDE    SKETCHES  101 

But  some  day  when  God  beckons, 

Where  rise  his  fronded  palms, 
My  soul  shall  cross  the  river 

And  lay  you  in  his  arms. 
Forever  and  forever,  beyond  the  Silent  Sea, 

You  will  rest  in  the  Arms  Eternal, 
And  still  belong  to  me. 


SLUMBER  SONG. 

Rock-a-bye,  my  baby  dear, 

Tender  blue  eyes,  shining  clear, 

White  lids  droop,  we'll  rock-a-bye 
Into  Sleep-land,  you  and  I. 

Hush  my  baby,  darling  rest, 

Cuddled  in  your  white,  wee  nest. 

Hush  my  baby,  hush  !  and  sleep, 

Mother's  eyes  will  safe  watch  keep, 

Mother's  love,  the  moments  through, 
Shall  be  bending  over  you 

Bylow  baby,  sleep  and  rest, 
Sheltered  in  your  tiny  nest. 

Sleep,  my  baby,  have  no  fear, 

Never  harm  shall  reach  you,  dear, 

Never  touch  or  breath  so  small 
On  your  little  faoe  shall  fall. 

Sleep  my  baby  sweet,  and  rest, 

Safe  within  the  dear  home  nest. 


102  HEARTHSIDE    SKETCHES 


BURNS. 

No  modern  poet's  lilting  lays 

Picture  to  us  those  "bonnie  braes", 
Where  "Afton  Water's"  limpid  flow 

Steals  through  the  heather  soft  and  slow. 
Fair  mother  earth's  bright  jewels  rare, 

Were  garnered  in  his  tender  care. 
To  nature's  heart  he  closely  clung, 

Frae  simple  themes  his  lyrics  sung. 

No  later  songsters'  happy  strain 

Stirs  hidden  chords  of  tender  pain, 
For  he  who  knew  the  hearts  of  men 

Hath  passed  beyond  our  mortal  ken. 
Yearning  for  days  of  "Auld  Lang  Syne", 

That  shadowy,  long  vanished  time ; 
Old  Scotia's  loyal  heart  still  mourns 

Her  bonnie  bard,  puir  Robbie  Burns. 


APPRECIATION. 

And  so  she  slept  while  the  neighbors  came 

To  the  saddened  house  that  day, 
In  softened  tones  they  named  her  name, 

In  a  kind  and  tender  way, 
And  not  even  one  but  through  her  tears, 

Spoke  gently  some  loving  word, 
She'd  thoughtlessly  kept  within  for  years — 

But  the  dead — she  never  heard. 


HEARTHSIDE    SKETCHES  103 

Then  they  brought  her  flowers,  rich  and  rare 

Breathing  their  sweetest  perfume, 
And  wreaths  of  roses  everywhere 

Made  bright  the  darkened  room. 
I  thought  of  her  life — its  sorrow  spent, 

And  the  great,  glad  joy,  if  she 
Could  see  the  tokens  of  love  they  sent — 

But  the  dead — she  could  not  see. 


A  WINTER  SCENE. 

Circling  dizzily  to  and  fro, 

Merrily  gliding  and  glancing: 

O'er  old  earth  falls  the  gleaming  snow, 

Each  winsome  flake  madly  dancing. 

Covering  o'er  with  mantle  white, 
All  the  dark,  unsightly  places, 
Robing  nature  in  vesture  bright, 
Brightening  sad  hearts  and  faces. 

Each  withered  stock   and  leafless  tree, 

Outlines  a  vision  of  delight 

Each  tiny  knoll,  the  shrubbery, 

Lies  sparkling  'neath  God's  clear  sunlight. 

The  rarest  gems  cannot  exceed, 
The  wealth  of  splendor  we  behold, 
When  from  their  cloudy  pinions  freed. 
Fall  crystal  beauties  manifold. 


104  HEARTHSIDE    SKETCHES 


THE  SILENT  ACRE. 

Within  God's  Silent  Acre, 

Our  quiet  lov'd  ones  sleep, 
While  o'er  each  holy  grassy  mound 

The  Angles  watch  doth  keep. 
To  and  fro  as  the  ages  go, 

As  a  shepherd  guardeth  his  sheep, 
Softly  singing  to  tireless  ears 

The  beautiful  song  of  sleep. 

For  old  and  young  this  slumber  song, 

Tenderly,  lovingly  sweet, 
Beguiles  the  hours,  as  leaves  and  flowers, 

Its  soft,  soothing  notes  repeat. 
And  God  who  loveth  his  own  the  best, 

Folds  them  unto  his  loving  breast. 
Sleep  God's  children  and  take  your  rest, 

Sleep,  oh  weary  ones,  sleep. 


RETROSPECTIVE. 

Beside  the  warm  hearth's  cheerful  glow, 
I  sit  sad  and  alone — When  lo ! 

I  dream  that  faith  and  hope  are  mine, 
I  live  again  the  old,  glad  time, 

When  life  was  sweet,  and  love  sublime. 


HEARTHSIDE    SKETCHES  105 

The  dream  grows  brighter.    Again  I  see 

Her  dazzling  face  upturned  to  me, 
Breathing  fond  vows  of  fealty, 

Soft,  clinging  arms  enfolding  me, 
Only  a  dream— it  cannot  be ! 

One  lingering  glance  from  lovelit  eyes, 

The  fairy  picture  fades  and  dies, 
And  life's  realities  loom  through, 

While  hazy  mists  obscure  the  view 
That  my  dream  fancy  mirrored  true. 


Let  us  corner  up  the  sunbeams, 

Lying  all  around  our  path ; 
Get  a  trust  on  wheat  and  roses, 

Give  the  poor  the  thorns  and  chaff. 
Let  us  find  our  chief est  pleasure 

Hoarding  bounties  of  the  day, 
So  the  poor  will  have  scant  measure 

And  two  prices  have  to  pay. 

Yes,  we'll  reservoir  the  rivers, 

And  we'll  levy  on  the  lakes, 
And  we'll  lay  a  trifling  poll-tax 

On  each  poor  man  that  partakes ; 
We'll  brand  his  number  on  him, 

That  he'll  carry  all  through  life, 
We'll  apprentice  all  his  children, 

Get  a  mortgage  on  his  wife. 


106  HEARTHSIDE    SKETCHES 

We  will  capture  e'en  the  wind-god, 

And  confine  him  in  a  cave, 
Then  through  our  patent  process, 

We  the  atmosphere  will  save. 
Thus  we'll  squeeze  our  poorer  brother 

When  he  tries  his  lungs  to  fill, 
Put  a  meter  on  his  wind-pipe, 

And  present  our  little  bill. 

We  will  syndicate  the  starlight 

And  monopolize  the  moon, 
Claim  royalty  on  rest  days, 

A  proprietary  noon, 
For  right  of  way  through  ocean's  spray 

We'll  charge  just  what  it's  worth, 
We'll  drive  our  stakes  around  the  lakes; 

In  short,  \ve'll  own  the  earth. 


BETHLEHEM. 

As  Shepherds  watched  their  flocks  by  night, 

An  angel  host  with  garment  bright, 

Proclaimed  a  Saviour  unto  men, 

The  Holy  Babe  of  Bethlehem. 

A  multitude  of  angels  sang, 

Glad  praises  o'er  the  hillside  rang. 

The  Christ,  our  Lord,  is  born  this  night, 

Behold  through  him  celestial  light 

Shines  out  upon  the  rugged  way 

Trod  by  earth's  weary  day  by  day. 

Glad  tidings  of  great  joy  we  bring, 

The  great  redemption  song  we  sing. 


HEARTHSIDE    SKETCHES  107 

Peace  and  good  will  on  earth  shall  reign. 
Ring  out  ye  hills  the  glad  refrain, 
Ring  doom  to  selfishness  and  greed, 
Sweet  sympathy  to  others'  need. 
Ring  ye  God's  proffered  Fatherhood, 
Enjoins  to  all  men  brotherhood. 
Adown  the  vanished  years  of  time, 
Has  come  the  echo  of  that  chime; 
And  Christ,  our  Lord,  anew  is  born 
To  loving  hearts  each  Christmas  morn. 


MET  A  VAUGHAN. 

The  meeting  of  the  waters,  the  Shannon  broad  and  fair 

Have  each  their  melody  of  love,  of  sorrow  and  of  care. 

They  fill  my  heart  with  rapture,  with  memory  and  song, 
For  love  will  ever  call  me  to  the  valley  of  the  Laun. 

The  valley  of  the  Laun,  the  valley  fresh  and  green, 
The  valley  of  'he  Laun  where  first  the  flowers  are  seen, 
The  valley  and  the  river  gliding  swiftly  on, 
The  valley  and  my  darling,  sweet  Meta  Vaughan. 

'Twas  as  a  boy  I  loved  her,  she  was  all  in  all  to  me, 

Yes,  Meta  was  my  star  of  hope,  my  little  bride  to  be. 
For  her  I'll  toil  for  wealth  and  fame,  the  world   I'll  wander 

lone, 

And  when  the  storms  have  crossed  my  path,  will  claim 
her  as  mv  own. 


108  HEARTHSIDE    SKETCHES 

Misfortunes  come  and  go  like  clouds  that  float  above, 
But  what  have  I  to  fear  if  I've  the  light  of  love ; 

With  Meta,  darling,  waiting,  my  troubles  all  are  gone, 
Life  is  but  a  dream  of  hope,  for  thee,  Meta  Vaughan. 

CHOKUS. 

The  pride  of  the  valley,  the  flower  of  the  Latin, 
My  own  little  Colleen,  sweet  Meta  Vaughan, 

A  bright  light  of  glory  ever  beyond, 

The  love  of  the  Shamroch,  and  sweet  Meta  Vaughan. 


THE  TOMB  BESIDE  THE  HUDSON. 

I  must  tell  you  of  a  river, 

Winding  downward  on  its  way, 
From  the  hills  that  rise  in  grandeur, 

Stretching  northward  far  away. 

Tree  crowned  hills  like  giant  soldiers, 

Guarding  well  the  fertile  fields ; 
Laden  with  the  choicest  fruitage, 

Nature  in  profusion  yields. 

Far  above  the  grand  old  river, 

With  its  treasures  all  their  own, 
Eocky  palisades,  and  highlands, 

Walls  of  grim,  unyielding  stone. 

Standing  guard  throughout  the  ages, 

Sentineled  above  our  dead, 
Resting  now  across  the  river, 

In  his  massive  marble  bed. 


HEARTHSIDE    SKETCHES  109 

While  below  as  if  in  homage, 

Wave  and  river's  solemn  chant 
Breathes  a  requiem  thanksgiving 

For  the  soldier  hero,  Grant. 


STERLING  CASTLE. 

Crowning  the  craggy,  rugged  height, 
Old  Sterling  Castle  greets  the  sight. 
Its  stately  battlements  rear  high 
Their  grim,  gray  turrents  toward  the  sky. 
Below  it  lies  the  battle  plain,— 
Here  Scottish  blood  in  a  crimson  flood, 
Bathed  the  dead  heroes  slain. 
Here  Bruce  led  Scotia's  bravest  on, 
At  Bannockburn  his  cause  was  won. 
Here  vVallace  led  his  gallant  van, 
In  fiercest  conflicts  known  to  man. 
Both  James  the  II  first  saw  the  light, 
And  James  the  V  from  this  fortress  site; 
And  years  agone  its  dungeon  dread, 
Echoed  the  sound  of  Rob  Roy's  tread. 
'Twas  here  Black  Douglass  felt  the  dart 
Of  the  cruel  dagger  in  his  heart. 
Here  knight  of  joust  and  tournament, 
On  daring  deeds  or  valor  bent, 
Wended  their  way  with  laughing  jest 
To  stirring  scenes  of  wild  contest. 
To-day  its  moss-grown  walls  of  stone, 
With  shrub  and  creeper  overgrown, 


110  HEARTHSIDE    SKETCHES 

Ee-echo  to  the  martial  tread 

Of  Highland  sentries  overhead. 

The  battle-plain— its  war-like  scenes, 

Seem  but  a  fancy  known  in  dreams; 

Valley  and  river  winding  down, 

Lie  smiling  'neath  old  Sterling's  frown. 

NOTE. 

Sterling  Castle  is  connected  with  the  most  important 
historical  events  of  Scotland  prior  to  her  union  with  Eng- 
land. It  stands  upon  a  rocky  height  220  feet  above  the 
plain,  overlooking  twelve  battle  fields.  Here,  at  Bannock- 
burn,  Bruce  gained  the  independence  of  Scotland;  it  was 
the  scene  of  Wallace's  fierce  contests,  and  a  favorite  spot 
for  the  joust  and  tournament.  In  this  Castle  James  II  and 
James  V  were  born.  Rob  Roy  was  confined  in  its  dungeons 
and  here  James  II  stabbed  the  Earl  of  Douglass.  These 
grand  historical  associations  add  greatly  to  the  charm  of 
the  place,  yet  it  would  be  interesting  without  them,  so 
charmingly  picturesque  is  the  landscape,  with  its  rivers  and 
mountains. 

A  Highland  regiment  is  now  quartered  within  its  walls. 


A     000  091  996     9 


